


Of Saints & Soldiers

by FereldenTurnip



Series: Of Saints & Soldiers (A/B/O verse) [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alpha Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forced Fetishization, M/M, Omega Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Religious Content, Slow Burn, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Wartime Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27157118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip
Summary: Nicolò has sworn an oath to God and his Saint, to forsake his sex and become the perfect weapon. The fields of Jerusalem are to be his final resting place. He kills and is killed.Yusuf is a travelling merchant, used to a life of day-dreaming and fine arts. When the city of Jerusalem cries out for help, he is a charitable defender. He kills and is killed.When they do not stay dead, the unlikely pair must rally together to survive. Struggling against the trappings of a world that frowns on upstart omegas and gentle alphas is difficult enough, but falling in love with your enemy? That's a long story...**prequel to "A Learning Curve"**
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Of Saints & Soldiers (A/B/O verse) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974334
Comments: 141
Kudos: 395





	1. A Knight of Saint Damaris

**Author's Note:**

> This is the pre-relationship prequel fic to Nile's story in "A Learning Curve" (ongoing). I will admit, A/B/O isn't my usual thing, but I've been heavily inspired to churn this bad boy out. I've attempted to twist the trope to my liking and do A LOT of world building. If A/B/O isn't your thing (and that's PERFECTLY FINE!) then feel free to skip it! But I hope I'm capable of delivering a good enough story to make people give it a go. 
> 
> That being said, more tags will be added as the story progresses (our badass warrior queens from the east will make an appearance at some point). NOTE: because this is set during the Crusades there will be mentions of **human and animal deaths!!** Casualties of war, I'm afraid. I try not to glorify it because that's not the focal point of this story, but I understand if that squicks some folks. 
> 
> SPECIAL THANK YOU TO MY BETAS: [Avanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avanie) & [Emdee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohemdee)! As usual you two keep me sane and legible for the greater public!

The walled city of Jerusalem awaits in a dip between converging valleys. Dry shrubs, grasses, and palms dust the hills above earth cracked by the summer sun. Shades of green and gold muted by the afternoon haze shimmering like oil on glass. An entire month filled with trials and tribulations has passed. The time has come to end this. 

The wind is scorching hot as it whips the Christian banners into a snapping frenzy. Once bright, colourful cloth, now dull and threadbare from their exhausting journey. Thin skeletal hands grasp onto the poles and hug the banners tight against the prevailing breeze. They’re naught but haggard, begging wretches these days. Hundreds of hungry faces, eyes sunken into the crevices of their skulls. Still, they persevere with the fervency of the devout, faithful in the expectation of the splendors that await them in the afterlife.

Nicolò is beyond tired.

He is a lean sentinel sitting ram-rod straight atop his horse. Peering at the line of pilgrims, soldiers, and knights, Nicolò finds himself balanced at the threshold of a breaking point. 

The sun here is relentless. If it weren’t for the hood of his green cloak, the pale skin on his shaved head would blister, and his metal earrings would burn his ears. Nicolò can ignore his ruddy skin. He is a master over his weak body; he can kill the pain as he was taught. Even his belly ceased its arguing hours ago, finally accepting it will not be filled any time soon. As it hasn’t since yesterday morning when he broke his fast on scraps of hardtack. Nicolò runs his tongue along the backs of his molars, chasing the lingering crumbs. 

He waits stoically alongside the rest of his fellow Damarites, the company of omegas riding aloft white or dappled-grey mares. Clothed in green, they’re stony-faced, soundless, and resilient. Prized hunting hawks waiting for their master to unleash them. 

At the forefront is Sister Beatrisia, their fearless leader. She has guided and directed Nicolò and the others since his… _ assignment _ to Constantinople. Her dark gaze is as hard and unflinching as the strength in her steel sword. Not once has Beatrisia wavered, not even at Antioch when plague and starvation halved their order. Halved them again during the march southwards. The matriarch is the epitome of the unyielding torch embroidered on the standard of their righteous saint. 

Out of all of them, it is only young Michelino who fidgets nervously amongst seasoned warriors. Standing between the horses, he is a warm weight tucked into Nicolò’s calf. The older omega schools his face into a neutral scowl, but he doesn’t kick the boy away. For some unbeknownst reason, Nicolò finds himself playing the reluctant role of care-taker to the lad. Fresh off the Genoese supply ships, Michelino entered their camp and instinctively melded himself to Nicolò’s hip. Instead of one shadow, now Nicolò has two. 

He side-eyes Michelino and notices him struggling with the green standard of Saint Damaris; he valiantly fights against the drafts dragging him about like a dandelion weed. Michelino is a reedy little omega, and as innocent as a lamb. A pair of slim, hooped earrings are the only indication of his vows to Saint Damaris, his baptism into the order. They are as plain as Nicolò’s piercings. 

Unlike Nicolò however, Michelino still sports an untouched mess of black ringlets--a sign he has yet to enter adulthood. The boy is a honeyed trap of pheromones and attracts all sorts of unwanted attention. He is lucky to have survived the flight from the harbor unmolested. Nicolò’s hand never strays far from his sword hilt as he registers the lingering, hungry looks gathered at camp. Hazel eyes wide and full of fright, Michelino startles at the clamour of battle and the cloying stench of alphas everywhere. The cloistered life is no comparison to the outskirts of Jerusalem, within the Pope’s Holy War. 

A gust of wind sends the standard nearly clipping into Nicolò’s head. He is lucky the motion doesn’t spook his horse. With a gloved hand, he latches onto the pole, and drives the butt end into the cracked earth. 

“Like this,” Nicolò instructs, holding it steady until Michelino has a surer grasp. 

Michelino stutters, bowing forlornly, “Sorry, Brother Nicolò!”

Against his strict education, Nicolò pets the back of the boy’s neck. It does the trick of soothing him, even evokes a pleased smile that lasts long after Nicolò remembers himself and draws away.  _ Stupid _ . He mustn't forget his training--to suppress his baser instincts. Nicolò is a weapon to be wielded, nothing more. 

Soon, Michelino will learn to kill the tenderness inside as well.

A priest robed in simple cloth meanders down the line of those present, blessing the faithful with the sign of the cross. These are the last rites for a warrior’s soul. The Damarites have already prayed to God today. They kneeled together in a large circle, hands clasped while Sister Beatrisia spoke the hymns and oaths of their order.  _ Duty, suffrage, sacrifice, honor _ . The priest will likely skip past them with a sullen sneer, as they always do. 

One lordly knight kneels in his splendid finery, paying respect as the Good Father hovers over him. When he turns to leave, the knight catches the priest’s sleeve and whispers into his ear. 

They are too far away for Nicolò to hear, but he knows what the knight begs for when their heads turn in unison and land on the Damarite contingent. The muscle in his jaw ticks. Taking a strip of cloth offered by the knight, the priest nods and plods his way towards them. The rest of the faithful lean forward curiously to watch the spectacle. 

Nicolò is  _ so tired. _

The priest is a beta with quivering jowls and a long face. Holy yet wholly unremarkable. Beatrisia looks down her Byzantine nose at the man. A sharp breeze knocks her green hood off her head, baring her shaved scalp to the wicked sun. Her triangular tonsure is streaked with bits of silver. Covered in stale mud and old blood, Beatrisia remains every bit as dignified as a warrior queen. 

The priest flinches. 

“The lord requests a _re_ _ lic _ _,_ " he stammers in Greek. He raises the knight’s cloth expectantly. Nicolò’s stomach drops when he points at Michelino. “From the young--” and he utters a word that Nicolò doesn’t recognize. From the way Beatrisia’s stare hardens impossibly further, it can’t be kind. 

She glares at the priest--he wilts, then realizes he’s a fellow clergyman and squares his shoulders. 

“Custom dictates a knight may receive your relic as a token-”

Beatrisia cuts him off, “I know what is required of my people, Father.”

“Then  _ obey! _ ”

Nicolò watches her face shutter, fuming from a beta’s command. This is an omega he has witnessed first-hand cut an alpha cleanly in two. She has butchered leagues of enemies twice her size, shirking her pain like water rolls off of a bird’s feathers. Lesser folk balk before the empyrean might of the Damarites. Nicolò frowns, does this priest truly believe he can demand the mountains to shift? 

But they aren’t mountains. They’re  _ omegas _ . 

The fury is gone in the blink of an eye, as if it never existed at all. With painstaking indifference, Beatrisia turns to Michelino and repeats the priest’s invocation in Ligurian. 

The lad immediately balks. Stiffening, Michelino whips his head between the two, his mouth floundering like a fish out of water. He clutches their standard like a shield. The acrid scent of panic hits Nicolò’s nose, and he locks his arms to prevent himself from doing something drastic. The elders are no help to him, so Michelino directs his pleas to Nicolò.  _ You should have known this would happen, boy... _ His eyes are bright and luminous, tears threatening to escape down his sunburnt cheeks. The priest is growing impatient. 

“I will do it,” Nicolò says so suddenly, even he is shocked. There is a pregnant pause after he utters his words, but there they are, hanging in the open air for all to hear. Beatrisia shrewdly studies him. A moment later she nods her permission. Nicolò repeats himself, this time in Latin.

The priest stammers, “But the lord wanted-” 

“The boy has not yet had his first heat,” Nicolò is already dismounting his horse, leaving no room for further argument. He adds venomously, “You will have mine or not at all.”

“Nicolò!” Beatrisia scolds, as she tends to do when Nicolò’s bark stings with too much teeth. Chastised, he averts his gaze to the ground. 

The priest flaps his gums uselessly at Nicolò, but his tongue-wagging falls on deaf ears. This close and Nicolò can see his bloodshot eyes, the purpled varicose veins in his arms, and the scabs on his worn feet. He yanks the strip of cloth out of those wrinkled hands and backs away--thankfully, that shuts him up. He steps in front of Michelino, effectively hiding him from view with his cloak. The little omega’s eyes are shining, gratitude flushing his face bright pink. Nicolò grimaces and shoves his helmet at the boy. Michelino hugs the metal close to his chest for safe-keeping. 

An internal flame of anger flickers before snuffing out entirely. He relies on his breathing techniques, and erects a façade of indifference.  _ This is how things are. That is all. _

His fingers don’t shake as he hikes his mail and gambeson up to his hips and sits on his haunches. Even with his cloak shading his body, Nicolò feels the weight of hundreds of eyes on his back. Crouching this low at his horse’s knees, Nicolò is  _ weak _ . Embarrassment shames him momentarily, before that too is eradicated. 

_ Consider yourself lucky. It could be a lot worse than this _ . 

Clenching his teeth, he focuses on the cracked hooves. He wads the strip of cloth in his fist, trying not to gag on the alpha’s pungent stench permeating the fabric. There is no water for a bath. The thought of carrying a stranger’s scent on his skin for days has him smothering a sudden retch. He squeezes his eyes shut in resignation. Better him than the boy.

There is a special slit in his braies that makes it easier to shove his hand through. Nicolò nudges aside his soft member and plunges the cloth into his entrance. He swallows and tenses against the dry abrasion scratching his walls. 

Michelino shuffles forward, nervous as a bird, “B-Brother Nicolò?”

Nicolò resolutely ignores him. 

When the cloth is sufficiently damp, he pulls it out and stands. His hauberk falls down his thighs and he passes the relic back to the priest, who leaves with a satisfied nod. Michelino tries getting his attention. Nicolò busies himself with mounting his horse. As he straddles the saddle, the soreness in his crotch intensifies. Beatrisia continues assessing the city walls, bored from all the waiting.

The priest returns to his post, delivering the new relic to its owner before continuing his rounds. The knight doesn’t seem to mind whose slick he now proudly wears around his neck. The pheromones of any ordained virgin omega will do to rouse a divine rampage against their enemies. He will cut down many before he is inevitably taken to the God’s side. Pilgrims titter amongst themselves--not about the public exhibition, but the impending invasion and their role within it. 

They’ve the impermanent memory of a newborn babe. 

One day, Nicolò will forget this too.

Michelino is mute as he lifts Nicolò’s helmet. He takes it and rests it over his saddle’s pommel, gloved palm digging into the conical shape until his muscles protest the strain. The city is bustling, and Nicolò spots several armed guards scurrying along the walls. No doubt shoring up their last-minute defenses. This will undoubtedly be a bloodbath. 

A hand rests above his knee, just beneath the edge of his mail. It’s tentative, but warm.

Nicolò doesn’t think twice before clasping it tightly in his own. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


The walls do not yield.

The sun sets, painting the sky in oranges and red, and the loyal followers of Saint Damaris trudge their way back into the Frankish camp. Their armor and horses are slathered with sweat and viscera that sloughs off in matted clumps. Every muscle in Nicolò’s body aches, but he is whole and alive. Unlike some.

Eighteen woke up that morning, passed around a waterskin and prayed. Now, Beatrisia donates nine sets of abandoned belongings to pilgrims in need. Nicolò eyes the nine empty cots, and realises he doesn’t have the energy to fold them away. 

Instead, he collapses onto the nearest one and heaves an exhausted sigh. The triangular block of his hair is full of grease and who knows what else. He is filthy, and his itching skin screams for a warm bath. His boots are much too far away for his leaden arms to reach. His eyes drift shut, blocking out the canvas rippling above his head. There’s a sloshing sound, followed by a wet cloth dabbing his face. Nicolò snatches Michelino’s thin wrist in mid air before he can continue. 

“Save the water,” he rasps. He doesn’t even sound like himself anymore. Snarling at the top of one's lungs for hours will do that to a person. 

Michelino jumps, frowning at him. His lips thin and he looks like he wants to argue. Damned, plucky little thing. Nicolò rolls his eyes. He motions down at himself and acquiesces, “Just--help me with my armor.” Michelino passes him the waterskin. Nicolò gulps once, relishing the cool taste, then restrains himself. He leans forward over his legs while Michelino tugs off his hauberk. The metal clatters in a disgusting heap on the ground. 

Once Nicolò is freed and dressed in cleaner clothes, they retire with the remainder of their order. Beatrisia passes each of them a small morsel of cooked ox meat--apparently traded for their dead soldiers’ supplies. They direct their thanks to God and climb into bed. Hopefully, they will catch a few hours of rest before attacking again.  _ Maybe then he’ll have the good graces to die this time. _

The Damarites’ large tent is too quiet. Too few bodies providing ambient noise for Nicolò to fall asleep to. He actually misses the snoring and snuffling. The sounds of life. 

In his insomniac state, he struggles to justify the day's events. Nicolò should feel happy that his fellows are in heaven. They died righteously, fighting to free the Holy City from pagans. Their souls have ascended to paradise. God is rewarding them with everlasting love and peace. Soon, He will reward Nicolò just as well. 

If their deaths are noble, then why does Nicolò feel so sick? 

He rolls over in his cot, hovering on the fringes of sleep. An extra blanket is balled over his hips to staunch the malodorous traces of alpha emanating from his loins. It’s overwhelming enough for his mind, his convictions, to betray him, but must his body as well? 

Behind him, Nicolò’s cot dips from an extra weight. He jerks to alertness, fingers curled on the dagger he keeps under his pillow. Inhaling, he discovers it’s only Michelino. 

“Brother Nicolò?” 

Nicolò contemplates feigning sleep. The hand gently shaking him makes that impossible. He groans. 

“Please, can I sleep with you?” 

“Is your bed not good enough, oblate?” 

He feels the boy flinch. “No. I mean, yes. I mean-” Michelino goes silent. His scent sours with sadness and grief. Nicolò feels him lay his forehead on his arm. 

“I’m scared,” he whispers into Nicolò’s shoulder. 

The boy is far too kind for this cruel world. Nicolò ought to belt the kindness out, whip him just as the Prioress had done to him. With every stinging blow, he grew stronger. So, too, would Michelino. Closing his eyes, he counts numbers inside his head. At twelve, Nicolò sighs and rolls onto his back, flipping the covers as he goes. Michelino darts beneath them and buries into Nicolò’s side. 

The younger omega trembles, nose pressing against his tunic. Eventually, his breaths even out and Michelino sleeps. For a while longer, Nicolò stays awake, stiff and uncomfortable. Sleeping beside another person is foreign. This close, Michelino smells strange, yet oddly familiar. It’s a nice, calming scent, and he’s surprised to feel his arms encircle the boy. 

His chest rumbles with a contented purr, and he slips into a dreamless sleep. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


Their rest is more akin to a long nap. 

It is Beatrisia who shakes them awake. The light from her oil lamp makes Nicolò wince. A frown marrs her face as she looks down at the two of them wrapped together. Michelino’s soft curls tickle his chin, his face tucked safely into Nicolò’s neck. The young omega yawns and moves about (Nicolò’s fingers  _ do not _ clench to draw him back) while the older two converse silently with their eyes. Beatrisia is disappointed by his lack of discipline. A warrior doesn’t last long with a chink in their armor.

_ Kill the softness _ . 

He shrinks from her pity, but she refuses to walk away until he squares his shoulders. This is their final day. Why waste it weak and feeble? 

They clothe and arm themselves again and head out for the last time. As they leave, Nicolò spares a glance back inside the tent. Their packs are piled to the side, wrapped and waiting for anyone to scavenge. The row of empty cots brings to mind a lonely graveyard dotted with tombstones. He utters a farewell to the darkness.

The rest of the southern base buzzes. People dart this way and that, throwing the whole camp into a furious tizzy. Word reaches them from a passerby that Lord Godfrey has outsmarted the pagans and put them at a tactical disadvantage. Talk of abandoning the wall to join the northern front circulates like wildfire. Nicolò cocks his head in askance at Beatrisia. She disagrees and that settles the matter. They will not abandon their post. 

Michelino has their horses ready and waiting when they arrive. Nine white mares chomping at their bits, doe eyes wide and attentive. They make an impressive sight to behold, galloping with their cloaks billowing in the wind. Pilgrims jump aside, their pitchforks and spears no match for the superior fortitude of the Damarites. Beatrisia brings them to a halt behind the makeshift barriers that block incoming arrows and stones. 

The sounds of battle and the smell of death stifle the air around them. Enemy catapults wind up and fire sporadically, their volley crashing into the earth with a mighty roar. There is a shower of metal, meat, and bone each time their aim is true. The skies are inky black and dusted with millions of stars. It is fire and brimstone as the city is besieged. God’s wrath is both prodigious and haunting. The stone walls will break and Jerusalem will fall, just as Antioch did. 

Memories of a year ago--a cacophony of screaming and crying as waves of baying, blood-thirsty warriors sweep through the streets. The cobblestones will run red with blood. Nicolò’s lip involuntarily curls, disturbed as he is by the sudden maelstrom swirling in his gut. With any luck, he’ll be long dead before he witnesses that again. 

“We muster at the second column,” Beatrisia says, spurring her horse in a circle to address her companions. “They will send a force out if we do not stand united. Protect the siege tower and watch the mangonels.”

Nicolò’s heart thumps wildly when Michelino dares to sneak a peek at the gore. He is on him in an instant, “Boy!” 

Nicolò grips his neck and pulls him back before a stray arrow can sink into his little eye. Michelino gasps and flops limply under Nicolò’s arm. “Stay behind the cover!” Nicolò narrows his eyes at him and shakes him for good measure.  _ Idiot boy! He could have gotten himself killed…  _ He wills his pulse back to normal and tries to refocus.

“Nicolò!” Beatrisia barks, eyes hard, “you are with me.”

With that, she and the others set off in a canter. Nicolò is thin lipped and sweating. He blocks Michelino from following, this upsets the young omega.

“Stay here,” Nicolò orders. 

“But I want to-”

“No!” His tone brokers no room for arguing. “You will stay here and help the crossbowmen. Keep your head down, and fill their buckets with arrows.” With one last, parting glance, Nicolò leaves and doesn’t look back (he  _ mustn’t _ look back). 

He rejoins his order, and slips his façade firmly back into place. It’s ill-fitting, but he hasn’t the time to think about it. There is a group of enemy foot soldiers blocking the Lord’s path to the wall. It’s up to them to clear it. As a stalwart line, the Damarites push their horses forward and gallop through. Nicolò holds himself steady, even as the soft bodies scream beneath his stirrups and make him wince. 

Beatrisia waves her arm and they circle back to do it again. This time, his horse rears and crumples, taking Nicolò with her. Winded, but uninjured, he regains his footing and comes back swinging. The Damarites fall back, dismounting to protect their own. The real fight begins.

Nicolò is a weapon, forged from the cold and the damp and the loneliness of his abbey. He is sharp and graceful, quick as a crossbow bolt and just as devastating. He raises his sword and brings it down, through flesh and bone, over and over again. The enemy, shocked by the audacity of his sex, is too slow to halt their demise. As a spinning circle, the Damarites cleave and slash their way through wave after wave of enemy. They clear a path to the wall for the siege tower, but it isn’t easy. The adrenaline pumping through their veins, the ferocity of their belief, keeps them in motion, even as they are inevitably cut down. 

One falls, Sister Austina, her blue eyes wide and unseeing. She’s quickly followed by Brother Stylianos, his guts hitting the ground before his body. Beatrisia growls through the loss, funneling her rage into plucking a dastardly pagan straight out of his saddle. Nicolò deftly spins and stabs the alphas that attempt to rescue their comrade. Sitting on the man, Beatrisia rams her fist into his nose, shattering the bridge with a sick crunch. Her sword drags across his throat and finishes him off. Then she’s up and back for more. 

It is brutal and disgusting work. 

Their numbers dwindle until it’s just the two of them left. Panting, Beatrisia steps into Nicolò’s blind spot, her back pressed against his. Just them against the rest of the world, blood and fire. A deep breath and they throw themselves back into the fray. 

They lose track of time, of how many they slay. At some point the acrid stench of smoke breaks through the fog of war. Intense heat blooms along his back. Nicolò whips around just in time to see the siege tower erupt in flames. He is aware he’s screaming, frustrated and distraught. All this bloodshed and  _ for what? _

Unfortunately, Nicolò is too close to the catastrophe. His cloak manages to ignite from a stray ember. He clumsily drops his sword and fumbles for the clasp at his throat. Sweat pours off him in waves, but he pushes the rising panic down and twists himself free. An enemy has witnessed his struggle and dives for him. Nicolò frantically darts around for his sword, trying to spot the glint in the flame. 

It is too late. The enemy raises his spear and howls. Nicolò can only brace for the impact.

It never hits. 

Beatrisia wedges herself against his chest and growls as the metal tip pierces her belly. Nicolò freezes. Time stops. He cradles her and sinks to his knees.

The enemy, a beta-- _ an ordinary beta _ \--gleefully crows in accented Latin, “To hell with you, you evil villains!” He twists his spear and Beatrisia cries out. A cloud of red disturbs Nicolò’s dumb shock. In his hands is Beatrisia’s dagger, swiped from her belt. He thrusts it into the man’s chest, right through the sternum. The beta slumps over, dead. That was the last around them. They are alone now. 

Beatrisia draws a rattling breath, her hands scrabbling for the spear. Nicolò blinks and gently lays her over his lap. Together they pull it out with a sickening squelch. His leader arches, face stricken with agony. Nicolò’s hands shove up her mail and unwork the padding beneath. Her torso is a mess and he can smell her bowls. She will not survive this. Still, his hands press over her wound, blood spurting between his trembling fingers. 

He shakes his head at her, incapable of understanding her sacrifice at all. Beatrisia just huffs, her lips twitching into a smirk. Her dark eyes are damp. 

Someone is shouting his name.

“Brother Nicolò!”

Michelino reigns his horse and leaps out of his saddle. Nicolò doesn’t have the heart to reprimand him; he must have witnessed the siege tower catch fire and rushed to find them. The boy gasps when he discovers them, and slides to his knees beside them, “Sister Beatrisia!” His hands hover, unsure of how to help. 

Beatrisia is grey and shivering when she starts to purr. It’s a deep and warbling sound that stills Nicolò’s bloodied hands. Gulping, he brushes her sweaty bangs off her chilled forehead. 

“W-why is she doing that,” Michelino cries, “why is she purring?”

“She is dying.” 

Nicolò releases her ruined gambeson, smoothing it back over her stomach with a growing sense of finality. 

“No!” Michelino shouts, “we can still save her!” 

Nicolò finds her hand instead. Beatrisia gently squeezes them together and nods. Her dark eyes lock with his-- _ it’s time _ . Nicolò runs his lips across her knuckles in farewell. She draws one more breath and closes her eyes, as if slipping off into sleep. A sob tears through Michelino and he curls over their leader’s torso.

Behind them, the siege tower burns, delivering a massive, hitching groan as wood disintegrates. The pilgrims have all scattered for the northern wall, annoyed with their lord’s ineptitude on the battlefield. The two omegas remain oblivious in their grief. They are allotted a moment of peace before all hell breaks loose. 

It’s in that moment that the enemy unleashes another raiding party. They gallop around the bend, fifty of them or so, scimitars slashing in violent arcs to pick apart the stragglers left behind. 

Nicolò’s eyes widen. He whips around to Michelino, “You need to run!”

The boy shakes his head, tears staining his cheeks, “What?!”

“There is no time to argue, boy!” Nicolò grabs him by his collar and hauls him up. His little feet barely skim the ground as Nicolò drags him away from Beatrisia’s body. Michelino wriggles like an eel, desperately trying to escape. A shrill whistle later, and Michelino’s horse trots forward.

“Nicolò! Nicolò,  _ stop! _ ” 

Nicolò practically throws him into the horse’s saddle. The mare whinnies and stomps her foot, but is obedient. He smiles bitterly--just like she was trained. Michelino is bawling, fingers twisted in his hauberk, as if his strength alone could keep them from parting.

“No, please! Not without you!” 

“Only one of us can make it,” Nicolò says and reaches for the rosary at his belt. Below the centerpiece is a relief of Saint Damaris, one Nicolò carved himself. He unweaves it and loops it over Michelino’s head. The pounding of hooves rattles the earth, drawing nearer. Cupping the boy’s face, he thumbs away the fresh tears. In his cold heart there is a growing ache. His mask is slipping. 

“Keep your head low and ride to the north. Find a priest to look after you until you make it back home. Do you hear me?”

Michelino nods miserably. Nicolò kisses his crown, nosing his curls. He smells of smoke and despair, but underneath it all is  _ that  _ scent. The one that helped him sleep so soundly. It’s sweet milk and baby fat. It elicits unfamiliar feelings, ones that summon his long-dead instincts from deep within. They tried to beat it out of Nicolò, locking him away in solitary confinement so no one could hear his screams. The same as the others. Until they were all husks. 

Nicolò scents him one last time. “You will survive this, my boy,” he whispers. With the speed of a striking snake, Nicolò cracks his hand against his horse’s rump. The mare jumps into a full gallop before Michelino has a chance to say goodbye. 

Nicolò watches until they’re a white dot disappearing over the hills. 

Plucking up the spear stained with Beatrisia’s blood, Nicolò turns to face the battlefield head-on. There are so many collapsed and dead, it’s difficult to navigate the terrain. It slows the approaching enemy, makes them divide their forces for the safety of their horses. One rider zeroes in on Nicolò and straightens his reins to run him down. 

Shoving his emotions down is painful, downright unbearable, but he bottles them away. It’s like holding lightning in a bottle. His sword is at the ready. Nicolò lowers his stance, pushing his weight on his toes. The rider gains on Nicolò. Twenty meters out. Ten meters.  _ Five _ .

As the enemy brings his curved sword down, Nicolò rolls and jabs the spear up into the belly of the beast. The horse lets loose a shrill screech and breaks its legs crumpling over the shaft of the spear. The rider goes flying over the pommel and lands on his neck. He is dead instantly. 

Nicolò bounces up and collects a discarded long sword. He directs his ire on the others that have rallied at the spectacle. Another tries to run him down, but again Nicolò is too fast. That man dies as well. Nicolò scales a rocky outcropping and leaps onto an enemy from above. The two fall over the saddle and land harshly on the ground. The alpha beneath him bucks and knees him. They roll and grope at each other, and in the movement Nicolò loses his sword again. Nicolò rips the man’s helmet off in the next pass and brings it over his nose. One hit and he goes still. Another and he’ll never get up again. 

Standing, Nicolò stumbles--his legs are wobbly like a newborn foal. He spits and rips off his own helmet. It’s not a smart maneuver, but Nicolò is  _ exhausted _ . He spots one more enemy. 

The last one wavers, visibly gulping. This alpha has enough sense to dismount and face Nicolò like a proper opponent. He is wearing the garb of his people; hauberk covered by expensive, colourful cloth and conical helmet wrapped in a light turban. His dark beard is too neat and silver rings too fancy. This alpha looks out of place, as if he took a detour to the palace and wound up on the battlefield instead. He will make for an easy kill. 

Nicolò, however, is unarmed. The alpha raises his scimitar and…waits.

Baring his teeth, Nicolò challenges him to strike. This idiot does nothing.  _ Why will he not _ \--

The scimitar points to the ground, at his dropped sword, specifically. He says something in his own language, short and clipped. Nicolò grimaces, keeping him in sight as he collects his weapon. The alpha nods and tries to speak to him again. Nicolò doesn’t even give him the opportunity to widen his stance. 

Steel clashes against steel, the alpha just managing to raise his scimitar to block Nicolò’s attack. A hair's breadth away and Nicolò can smell honey and spices on his skin. The shock in his brown eyes switches to anger. One mighty push and Nicolò rocks back. He parries the alpha’s swing and from there it’s a never-ending volley. 

The fight draws them closer to the mighty walls of Jerusalem. This pampered alpha holds his own, matching Nicolò in ferocity if not in skill. They circle and strike at each other, never quiet managing to score a fatal hit. Bruises and nicks from pommels and blade edges litter their bodies. Nicolò keeps going, but his body edges closer to a precipice. Sweat stings his eyes, makes his hands slippery. His weakness vexes him and the distraction awards the alpha the upper hand. 

Unexpectedly, Nicolò discovers he’s penned in against the ancient masonry. His opponent decides he’s had enough of this game. As Nicolò slips in sand, the damned alpha catches him unawares and rams into Nicolò. Arms lock tightly around his torso, cracking several ribs and knocking Nicolò’s sword from his hand. His lungs burn with every staccato breath and he’s not sure if it’s from rage, despair, or an actual puncture to the organ. A coppery cough rattles out of Nicolò and flecks the enemy’s sleeve red.

He raises a foot and strikes his heel into the alpha’s instep. The alpha shouts something commanding in his own language. _Obey!_ _the priest had said._ Snarling, Nicolò spits in his face. Brown eyes narrow incredulously as red saliva tracks down his cheek and into his bushy, black beard. 

It’s… it’s  _ hilarious _ . Nicolò cracks and shatters like glass. Maniacal laughter saturates the tepid space between them, and Nicolò realizes it’s coming from his own mouth.

A split second later and Nicolò is whirled away from the wall, only to come crashing back into the unforgiving stone. He is still cackling, his lungs sputtering wetly. He laughs even as his skull ricochets once, twice,  _ three  _ times. On the third strike, something crunches in his ears, like twigs collected for kindling. Snap--

_ A green forest with tall, tall trees, bare feet in black soil, leaves glittering like jewels, pebbles in a riverbed-- _

Nicolò cries out from the impact--a pathetic, bloody mewl that paints his teeth pink. His face crumbles and his jaw drops. A rivulet runs down the back of his head and neck to soak his collar. The world slows to a sluggish crawl. Distantly, Nicolò is aware of the continued clamour of battle, but it's like listening through wool. His fingers blindly pull at the alpha’s scarf, twitching with the throbbing in his head. Behind his enemy, the starry-night sky is so very blue.

A vibration whirs in his chest and bubbles across his vocal chords. Nicolò is purring. 

His killer immediately stills and blinks. This close and Nicolò can see his brows pinch. It furrows the lines on his tawny forehead visible beneath his helmet’s rim. Is that horror making his brown eyes damp?  _ Fool _ .

The alpha hesitates long enough for Nicolò to duck under his chin. With one last surge of energy, he latches his teeth to his jugular and  _ bites _ . 

The flesh gives and a waterfall of searing-hot blood pours over his mouth. Nicolò feels the surprised scream before it ever rings in his ears. Down his chin, over his neck and front, Nicolò is drenched in blood. Claws pull at his shoulders, trying to push him away. When they scratch at his shattered skull, Nicolò’s eyes roll backwards. He releases with a short gag and the ground under his feet disappears. 

They fall in unison, a clatter of metal and twisted limbs. The alpha cradles Nicolò in his spasming arms. His vision fragments into a swirling rainbow.  _ Is this heaven? _ It hurts. He closes his eyes. So cold. Nicolò tucks his face into warm, wiry hair. The alpha gurgles and convulses beneath him. 

Everything is fading, his body dulling into muted greys. 

Then…nothing. 


	2. The Merchant from Mahdia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf is thirty-and-three years old and very far from home. At the base of the mighty walls of Jerusalem, Yusuf breaks a promise. He hesitates.
> 
> Yusuf dies in a ditch, his throat ripped open. His glazed brown eyes locked on the starry-night sky. 
> 
> Yusuf dies…and then he lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind, thoughtful comments on the first chapter! As promised, here is Yusuf's POV. Do I have to warn for temporary, morbid character death in this fandom?
> 
> Once again, shout-out to my AMAZING beta, [Avanie!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avanie/pseuds/Avanie) THANK YOU THANK YOU!

  
  
  
  


Yusuf is thirty-and-three years old and very far from home. 

Damascus shares many similarities with the Maghreb, but today the morning here is grey and drab, heralding a downpour of icy-cold rain for the evening. The exquisite gardens this city is famous for have shed their summertime blooms. The palm fronds sag and droop with the weight of winter. Yusuf’s left elbow locks in preparation for the frigid night ahead. The childhood wound, earned from an embarrassing tumble out of a tall citrus tree, correctly predicts the shift in weather and makes its protests known with a dull throb. Only in his thirties and already his body aches like an old billy goat. He rubs at his elbow absentmindedly through his thick robes as he kneels. 

The Umayyad Mosque in Damascus is a grand feat of human architecture and artistry. He finds solace among the refined mosaics and flowing inscriptions. Kneeling over his prayer rug, Yusuf follows the vines of goldenrod lotuses with his forefinger, his silver ring gleaming handsomely in the crimson backdrop. Above his head, the decorative lanterns sway in the draft crawling in through the open courtyard. The glass creaks and lurches ominously on hammered metal hinges. Alone, Yusuf faces the mihrab, light and shadow flickering over the mottled marble and bright bits of tile. The golden scripture flares, as if alive and breathing, and gooseflesh prickles over his skin. A portent to match the grim news coming out of al-Mashriq as of late. 

That is when the call to aid arrives via Fatimid petitioners. 

Raised voices fill the courtyard and draw Yusuf forth out of his silent contemplation. He diligently rolls his rug and tucks it under his arm, then follows his curiosity outside. A small crowd has gathered, alphas and betas congregating and clucking in a cloud of perfume and pheromones. From his vantage point at the top of the steps, Yusuf has a clearer view than most. 

The envoys are beleaguered and road weary, dust and muck clinging to their riding clothes. They certainly stick out like a sore thumb, but they adamantly refuse a bath until they’ve a chance to speak to the broader public. Yusuf listens, leaning against a marble column, hand worriedly stroking his moustache and beard. Their words are barking, brittle and edged with desperation. How much hospitality will they expect here in the city of their ancient rival? How soon will officials demand they march back from whence they came?

One shouts, “The Franks have conquered Antioch, mauled Ma’arrat, and now set their sights on defiling Jerusalem!”

Another, “Allah, the Living One, compels you to honor the Sixth Pillar and defend your homes!” 

As the alpha of his family Yusuf knows a thing or two about wielding a sword, his father commanded it from his only son. But the prices of silks and spices are more in Yusuf’s province. He likes keeping it that way, too. When he shuffles to leave, a Fatimid delegate notices him lurking at the outskirts of the crowd. A prime target for singling out. 

“You there! Merchant, are you not?” 

Yusuf freezes, caught. Anything could have given him away, from the expensive robes and comfy slippers, to the jewelry clinging to his fingers and wrists. For once in his life, Yusuf is unexpectedly self-conscious about his lavish ornamentation. He pauses, considers fleeing, but a voice inside his head reprimands him for being so rude. It sounds an awful lot like his mother.

“The people, _your people_ , are dying while you sip fruit juice and dine on succulent meats. Your family’s coffers fill with profit while the lands of the faithful are pilfered and razed. Why have you not joined the fight? Have you no sense of honor or courage, _alpha?_ ” He sneers mockingly at Yusuf. The words strike a deep-rooted nerve-- _get your head out of the clouds, boy, and raise your fists!_ \--and he instantly bristles against his better judgment. What does this stranger presume to know of Yusuf’s honor? And to call on it so publicly is a grave insult, the lapse of etiquette notwithstanding. 

The rest of the men descend into hushed whispers, tittering and pointing their fingers at him. Suddenly, his rings burn, as if fresh out of the forge. The back of his neck dampens and his ears flush. Yusuf has never been more embarrassed in his entire life. He has stood before crowded auditoriums and recited poetry, yet it’s these gawkers who have succeeded in diminishing Yusuf. Embarrassment quickly gives way to shame because, try as he might, there’s actually no fault in the man’s argument. What _has_ Yusuf contributed? The delegate smiles triumphantly.

“You have chastised me well enough, sir,” Yusuf bows slightly, “Astaghfirullah! The Merciful teaches us to walk with a humble heart,” and he can’t resist a pointed look at the twitching envoy who dared speak disrespectfully. Regardless, he’s mentally calculating how much money he can donate charitably to the Fatimids.

“What assistance can I provide to our brethren in need?” 

The answer is immediate, “Your sword!” 

Yusuf balks. The crowd waits on bated breath, certainly this show-down of wits is the most excitement they’ve had all winter. He casts away his resentment and fortifies himself.

“If the people need me, then I shall swear myself to the cause,” Yusuf declares, praying his voice doesn’t waver. A great change has occurred. The rest of the world remains oblivious, continuing to spin on its axis as Yusuf and a few others volunteer their muscle. 

Uncertain of what he’s committed to, but compelled nonetheless, he all but floats back to his apartments to pack his belongings. Each step further solidifies his conviction--he’s doing the right thing. _Come now, Yusuf, this is what they expect from a strong man like you!_ His father’s voice this time. _You are an alpha, not a little boy!_

His father’s old attendant, Rostam, pleads with him all the same. 

“Please, al-Tayyib! Think more clearly on this matter!” Rostam is an elderly beta with a good head for arithmetic, but not much else. His beard is grey and patchy, and his grey eyes are beset with wrinkles. He has been with their family since Yusuf was born. 

Wringing his bony hands, he paces a groove into the expensive carpets. Having grown dizzy watching him, Yusuf turns his attention back to his writing desk where he finalizes his accounts. 

“You are no soldier,” Rostam says, “that steel sword of yours is just for show. What use is it against these foreign brutes?” 

“I beg your pardon!” Yusuf, affronted, leans over his parchments and ink with a hand braced on his hip. “I saved your sorry life with that sword. Struck a mighty beast while you relieved yourself in a bush!” 

“I have seen you stick a fox, if that is what you mean,” Rostam grumbles. 

“It was a very cunning creature,” Yusuf wags his finger. He tries for humor, tries hiding how scared he really is behind a convincing smirk, “It could have stolen your purse!” 

Rostam heaves an exasperated sigh, “As the head of your family and the business, you cannot simply neglect your duties and go play hero! This is not one of your ballads, Yusuf.” 

“And as an _alpha_ , I am bound by duty!” He bites, his sense of humor evaporating. Yusuf swallows and stares at his quill, at the ink staining his manicured fingernails. _Stay or go, honor or cowardice, tough or soft._ His heart fills with sorrow and spills over like an overflowing cup. The Fatimids were right about him. 

_Inshallah_ , if God wills it then Yusuf will summon the confidence and obey. Rostam waits impatiently as he searches for the right words. “The Kitab says he who believes must also put into action. Should I put my own comfort above that of holy obligation and be made a hypocrite?” One pleading look and the beta crumples in resignation. He folds, arms wrapping around his thin torso, and he trudges out of Yusuf’s private quarters. Like a man tasked with relaying the news of a sudden death to the rest of the family. 

Yusuf squares his shoulders against a pervasive, soul-crushing weight. Visions of his sweet sisters’ faces corrupted and made gruesome by gluttonous brutes plague his thoughts. He knows they are safe. How many countless others can say the same? Yusuf is considerably lucky. 

He drafts three separate letters, two bound for the Maghreb and one for al-Qahira. Each contains his undying love for the three omega women, the only family he has left in this world. The papers overflow with eloquent poetry brought to life by his looping, attractive scrawl. He hopes they understand why he’s doing this. 

Yusuf sleeps and, of course, his elbow throbs in time to the tell-tale patter of rain on the screened balconies. 

A week later, he leads a camel to the city gates. There are sixty or so other alphas and betas waiting to begin the convoy south, all mustered by heroic rhetoric. Young couples embrace and wish their beloved farewell. Others are hardened and flinty--their rides are laden with well-worn weapons. Yusuf finishes adjusting (fiddling with) his own provisions and stands opposite of Rostam. His shiny, new armor fits like a glove, but needs some getting used to. Yusuf refuses to entertain analogies of cages and shrouds while he shifts uncomfortably. 

“I left the girls letters, you will find them on my desk,” Yusuf says politely. “Please see to it that they are delivered. As of right now, you have temporary control of the business until Maryam can sort through the paperwork.” 

The beta nods obediently and Yusuf notices the fresh bags under his eyes. It makes his lips thin and before he can stop himself, he envelopes Rostam in a crushing hug. It lifts the old beta right off his skinny little legs. It’s the type of affection he would normally kick and slap Yusuf for, as he’s done since the alpha grew to tower over him. Instead of indignant sputtering, the old man clings just as tight. 

“You are a soft-hearted fool,” Rostam says wetly into Yusuf’s ear.

“Come now, old goat,” Yusuf cajoles, “this is not goodbye!” He repeats the mantra a dozen more times inside his head. 

Rostam pulls away, his eyes shiny with tears. He shakes his head, “You keep your wits about you, boy, and let not your weapon hesitate for anything. Promise?” 

“I promise,” he says and swears an oath to return as soon as possible

Wrapped in warm wools, he leaves Damascus. Rostam’s frail figure shrinks the further afield Yusuf travels, until the caravan vanishes over a steep hill and he can no longer be seen.

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


Months later, at the base of the mighty walls of Jerusalem, Yusuf breaks his promise. He hesitates.

Yusuf dies in a ditch, his throat ripped open. His glazed brown eyes locked on the starry-night sky. 

Yusuf dies…and then he lives.

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


At first, he is aware of nothing. 

Yusuf floats endlessly in an inky, pervasive blackness. Swimming up slowly from this terrible ocean floor, his senses return a fraction at a time. A breeze blows dust across his nose and eyelashes. A faraway racket wavers out of tune, metallic and roaring, and he wants to cover his ears. The world wavers momentarily, then pops Yusuf to the surface like a bubble.

Gasping, lungs expanding with a sharp rattle, Yusuf coughs on spoiled air. The sputum is black with smoke and ash as it rains down from above like morbid snow. To make things more difficult, there is an unhelpful weight crushing his chest. Yusuf sputters violently and for a moment is confused. Gravel and shrub grass poke into his back, and he should feel fatigued, but the exertion from the past few days is nonexistent. Good as new-- _better_ , even. His elbow doesn’t twinge anymore. 

Has he ascended to paradise? If this is Jannah then it looks and feels a lot like Judea under attack. The familiarity sparks a sudden panic. A vivid wave of memories crash over him, threatening to drown him--

_Green eyes brimming with fury and fear, the mocking laughter, a sharp cry; he’s_ **_hurt_ ** _him, teeth bared and biting_ \--

Yusuf scrambles to staunch the flow of blood gushing from his neck. He remembers it now, as clear as day, pulsing over his chin and soaking his dense beard. It cascaded over his decorative surcoat, ruining the beautiful fabric, then swirling into the metal whorls of his chain armor. His life force was draining away and leaving him frigid under the winking stars. Yusuf expects ravaged sinew, yet his fingers meet undamaged flesh. Underneath the thick layer of filth, he is whole.

The revelation whips his heart into a frenzied race. A rational part of him not yet succumbed to panic realizes even _that_ feels stronger, healthier. He sits up to assess the rest of his body. The action jostles the remaining weight off and to the side. Yusuf blinks. 

It’s the corpse of the omega Frank. The scrawny thing killed him with his…teeth? Icy shock sludges through his veins, numbing him from tip to toe. The omega lays there on his side, his pale, slackened face marred with flaking blood (Yusuf’s blood). The green tabard is shot through with red, nearly concealing the foreign flame motif embroidered over the front. If Yusuf pretends just hard enough, he can mistake the pale man for napping. He is still and silent as the grave. 

With a trembling hand, Yusuf touches the omega’s neck. His fingernail catches on a dull earring as he nudges the shaved head, the stubbly hairs prickling his skin unpleasantly. He sinks them into the triangular patch of hair cropped over his forehead and tilts him forward. Sure enough, the back of his skull is dented, broken open to expose a sliver of white and grey.

Yusuf chokes and scurries backwards. Thoughts zip around his head, scattering like startled birds. _This cannot be happening!_ He pants, mouth flooding with saliva. His stomach roils and clenches--a second later and he heaves into the grass. Bile pours over his swollen tongue, acid scarring his throat. Hot tears of shame collect on his eyelashes and leak over his nose.

_Come on, al-Tayyib. Compose yourself! This is not your first kill_. Nor his second, or tenth, or twentieth (it was his twenty-ninth). Yusuf’s performed his duty exceedingly well, his scimitar cutting down many lives. One down, onto the next, never dwelling on it for too long. Dozens of alphas and betas shrieking in the throes of death, Yusuf hovering and wheezing out a forbidden prayer for them nonetheless. 

But an omega? It makes no difference that it was self-defence, that this creature brutally executed several others before throwing himself on Yusuf. What sort of people send in their most vulnerable into battle? These degenerates trussed up an omega in soldiers’ garb and sent him to war. And Yusuf murdered him.

Oh, and look how exceedingly cruel he was to this man. 

When Yusuf gave him every opportunity to surrender the man attacked harder, faster. He just wanted him to stop! Then the omega had the audacity to _laugh_. 

Blinding white-hot anger possessed him and, unbidden, Yusuf pushed him. How dare this man find jubilation in his people’s slaughter? And so Yusuf hit him again, kept shoving him until the cackling morphed into a sad, arresting croak. The sound immediately snuffed the anger. Sand poured over an open flame--extinguished. The violent demonic spirit driven out by a whimper. _What have I done?_

He shudders, rendered with pitiful shame. Yusuf deserves nothing short of death for his transgression. 

But Yusuf could have sworn he perished. Why does he still breathe? He tugs off his helmet and lets it fall to the wayside with a metallic thunk. Yusuf spits out the remnants of bitter bile. His teeth itch and his throat burns--what he wouldn’t give for a sip of fresh water. 

The battlefield is dark and devoid of living creatures. Only the dead and their ghosts linger here. Is this it, then? Is Yusuf a spirit? He died and he lingers in a middling realm. Sinking his head into his hands, Yusuf wipes away sweat and grime and clutches his hair. Has Allah trapped him here as punishment? Surrounded by inferno, carcasses, and carrion, this might as well be Jahannam. His sisters will hear about his death and he groans. _No, do not mourn the wicked murderer!_

Suddenly, Yusuf spies movement in his periphery. Despair momentarily forgotten, he peeks through the gaps in his gloves. The body of the Frank is exactly where he fell, crumpled and broken. His eyes narrow suspiciously. 

A beat later. A foot kicks at the dirt. 

Yusuf jumps out of his skin, chin dropping in shock. The limb jerks again, followed by a clenched fist, then-- _Gasp!_

The omega lurches onto his back, gulping in air as if he’d run a marathon around the city. Bright, piercing eyes flicker wildly. He moans and flops his head to the side. Yusuf is horrified to watch his skull unbuckle and crack itself back into place. Perfectly unblemished. 

“Allah al-Ghafur,” Yusuf whispers, hand flying to the dagger tucked in his belt. Unfortunately, the sound rouses the other into rolling towards him. Perhaps it’s morbid curiosity that stays Yusuf’s hand as he catches the same fear and confusion play out in the other’s expression. 

The omega’s green gaze sweeps over Yusuf, to his neck, bewilderment warring with hatred. 

He hisses, “You! But--how-” 

Yusuf’s mind processes the somewhat-familiar language. That was Ligurian! 

The omega notices Yusuf’s hand clenched around his dagger and he grimaces. Once more, Yusuf’s hesitancy is his downfall.

It’s a horrific sight, covered in gore and blood as he is, when the omega lunges forwards and barrels Yusuf over with his shoulder. His hands are quick, viscous things as they grapple for the weapon. Yusuf shouts and doubles down, refusing to relinquish it. 

They kick and wrestle, rolling in the dirt like swine, grunting and panting in exertion. Yusuf is headbutted at least twice--the fracture of his nose ringing loud into the night. He lands a few solid hits to the other’s stomach. It only serves to make him angrier. Eventually, he ends up pinning his opponent, but it is a precarious victory. 

The other man bucks and somehow manages to curl his fingers around the hilt. Unsheathing the curved blade exposes it to the raging fires all around them. It glows in the yellow-orange light, sharp and dangerous. He is dexterous, spinning it deftly in his palm to strike, but Yusuf is stronger. Clamping down on his wrist, Yusuf whacks it against the ground to disarm him. 

Howling, the omega nevertheless refuses to let go. He cranes his neck, mouth open and teeth bared, ready to rip another hole in him. Yusuf rears away in the nick of time. 

“Ach!” Yusuf shouts, scandalized. Unfortunately, he is now off balance. The omega--sly, feisty wolf--hooks a leg over him and rolls them. They skid across uneven ground and the earth gives way entirely. The ravine below is steep and unforgiving. Their bodies bounce apart as stones batter their armor. Fragments of leather and steel flake off, lost in the sandy dirt, exposing his legs and arms. Yusuf is mangled from pain and debris. 

Finally, with a great wallop, Yusuf lands on his stomach in a jumble of limbs. His arm screams at him, either broken or dislocated, or both. Fresh blood beads at his temple and drips down his hairy cheek. His beard has never been this foul. Grimacing, he pulls himself into a sitting position. He wipes at his cut eyebrow. The shallow gash bleeds like all head wounds do--fast and copiously. Yet, even as his fingers probe the edges Yusuf feels it knit back together by an invisible force. Similarly, his shoulder pops disgustingly, snapping back into the socket on it’s own volition. 

He is too astounded for words. 

Across from him, the omega hitches and whines. He shakes his head like a dog and fingers his split lip. He too is seemingly amazed when the break heals. The man stares in horror at his bloody fingertips, then directs his questioning gaze to Yusuf. The rage returns in an instant, though it’s tempered with trepidation. 

The dagger is in the grass between them, tossed away during their downward spiral. They lunge for it at the same time. Boots scrabble and slip a few times, hands clawing the earth for traction. 

Unfortunately for the other, Yusuf is quicker. 

The two of them are almost taken aback when the blade sinks into the omega’s side, piercing his lung. Two sets of eyes--one green and one brown--narrow on a ribcage dampening with spreading blood. The omega coughs and a dark glob spews over his chin, his eyebrows furrowed, stupefied. His death is long and torturous. Blood, nearly black in the moonlight, soaks the hilt and stains Yusuf’s shaking hand. He dares not look at it for too long, lest he break. 

The omega deflates over Yusuf’s lap. He drowns on dry land, gasping wetly, droplets of blood flecking his teeth. Yusuf feels he owes it to the omega to hold him, hoping that this death sticks and his suffering can end. A funeral prayer coalesces on his tongue and even though this stranger is Ahl al-Kitab, Yusuf is soft and he recites the rite anyways. The omega flinches from Yusuf’s touch, from his words. Green eyes shut, tears spilling over his grimy cheeks. 

He stills. The wretched wheezing stops. 

There is a scream perched at the back of Yusuf’s throat. It embeds itself in the muscle and scratches like a hook ensnared in a fish's mouth. His entire being pulses from the dire urge to shrink or flee, to rip his hair out at the root or roar until his voice breaks. _Allah, show pity on me, allow myself to disintegrate and blow away!_

He is barely aware of the rush of a secondary breath, nor the dagger pivoted to sink into his guts. 

Yusuf dies with his entrails pouring over his forearms and the sounds of what could be weeping in his ear. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


_Densely-packed trees with bundles of spiky leaves. He holds his bow at the ready, wary of the shadows weaving tricks amidst the trunks. She takes the lead ahead of him, leading her horse with a nudge from her ankles. Her hand never straying far from the double-headed axe strapped over her back. Shafts of light grow as the canopies expand. The thicket clears, he squints against the blinding light--_

_\--A row of jagged mountains, blue and brown crests blending together on the distant horizon. The clouds close enough to kiss the peaks. The vast forest sways in a breeze like algae rolls with the ocean current. Lush green hills as far as the eye can see. Flowering grasses smattered with fragile yellow blossoms. They brush his stirrups as he pushes his horse further into the field towards the green-blue lake. This is home--_

_\--Stones as large as his head, coated in slimy, slippery mosses. He steps dainty, barefooted, careful not to trip. This close and the water is crystal-clear. He leans over with a pronged spear, waiting for the ripples to smooth out into clear glass. Today he hunts for their dinner. He catches his reflection. Straight black hair done in a plait over the shoulder, dark thin eyes in an oval face--_

_\--She stares back, ancient and knowing. Yusuf holds his breath and waits to catch the oblivious fish._

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


Yusuf surfaces from his dream, jolting upright from death’s grip and nearly bowling over the omega. Was it a dream…or a vision? He swears the smell of crisp pine lingers in his nose, that his feet can still sense gentle, lapping waves, the taste of smoked fish on his tongue. It’s nearly impossible to tell which is real; the blistering heat of Judea or the nipping air of higher altitudes? 

_What just happened?_

Gulping, Yusuf presses a hand to his stomach. The squelch of wet fabric and broken mail isn’t as surprising as the touch of another. The omega, his mute sentinel, minutely shakes his head in astonishment, his fingers patting Yusuf’s healed flesh. In his bright gaze is a certain sort of sadness, one that borders on guilt. Yusuf can’t say what inspires him to clasp their hands together (solidarity or fatigue?), yet he flattens their palms underneath his gambeson, against his whole and intact belly. Desperate to make him see that, _yes_ , they are alive. 

Buried under the stench of blood and viscera, Yusuf can almost smell his opponent. His natural omega scent is warped, almost perverted, and it amplifies his curiosity. _What are we? Who are you? Why are you so different? What do I smell like to you? Am I simply a foul and odorous enemy? Do you even see me as human?_

For a moment they rest, foreheads bowed so close they could be mistaken for two reunited warriors, overjoyed by the other’s survival. A naïve, foolish thought. 

_What_ **_is_ ** _happening?_

“Bismillah,” Yusuf breathes, scared. The omega startles, tensing beneath his hand as pale eyes widen, then narrow. 

Their uneasy truce is abandoned. Yusuf steels himself for the inevitable retaliation. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


He loses count of how many instances he’s killed. 

He never forgets the omega’s deaths (it’s nine). 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


This never-ending dance is a divine punishment. Humans aren’t meant to understand His omnipotence and omnipresence. Right now, at this very moment, Yusuf’s life-long confidence is tested by unbeatable heartache. _Please, Allah, have I not brought you honor?_

They’re both tiring--swings lagging, footwork lazy--wounds and bruises disappearing faster than they’re earned. Eventually, they end up rolling in the brittle sedge grass, one gaining the upper hand for a minute before conceding it to the other. Over and over and over. 

“Devil! Demon!” The omega rages, eyes feverish and luminous, “What have you done to me?!”

“I do not know!” Yusuf shouts back in Ligurian, just as churlish. 

The omega immediately stills on top of him, clenched fist half-way towards breaking his nose in, the other balled in Yusuf’s tattered scarf. Rocking back to sit on Yusuf’s legs, the omega imitates a beached fish--mouth gaping and speechless. 

Instinctually, he should kick the man off while he’s too stunned to fight back. To gain the upperhand, to survive. Yusuf’s upbringing, so ingrained in his backbone, balks despite the clear and present danger. Thou must protect the weaker sex against acts of violence. And what a laugh that is--the Imams never met _this_ particular omega, who is anything but weak. 

No, he’s vicious and rabid, like a dog. The omega even bit Yusuf’s ear clean off and spit it in his face. When it grew back, he had the gall to do it again. However, most dogs that snarl with hackles raised still plead, poor and weary for understanding. And there, confusion and alarm war across his pallid face. 

Sighing, Yusuf chooses a middling path instead.

The omega snarls as his wrists are imprisoned. He thrashes, trying to break loose. Yusuf merely holds him tighter.   
  


“Please,” Yusuf begs, the language fumbling on his tongue, complicated when nothing but grunts and screams served them previously. “Please, enough! We do not have to do this--” His groin flares in pain as the man knees him. He grunts and hunches in on himself for protection. 

“No, I must make this right!” Is all the warning Yusuf gets before he’s killed again. 

Death relinquishes him the same as before--hacked out of the horrific, black ooze he’s become so well-acquainted with, one that refuses to keep him permanently. Yusuf groans and spits up gravel. The grit grinds disgustingly across his molars. Half-heartedly, the Omega raises the drenched dagger once more, blood-shot eyes welling with tears. 

Shaking his head, Yusuf pleads, “No more, I--” he can’t remember the phrase. He switches to Sabir and hopes the omega will understand, “I yield.” Exhausted, he sprawls on his back and huffs at the azure-coloured sky. Dawn is approaching. They have been killing each other for hours. Yusuf is _tired_. 

The dagger is abandoned. The omega follows next, collapsing to his knees, wrecked and mourning. He throws back his head, arching his neck, and releases a long, desolate wail. “Have I not done what You asked?” He screeches, unaware of his one-man audience. “I accepted my punishment, I took up Your cross, and I am _still_ unforgiven? For my wrong-doing--I am sorry!” He hiccups, shaved head bowing over his chest as he sinks his hands into the earth. He chews dirt as he whimpers, “Please!”

Yusuf watches him with pity. Astonishing. After rendering each other to pulpy shreds and refusing to die, witnessing his opponent erupt so emotionally is what discomforts Yusuf. The distress wraps palpably around his head, clotting the air with sharp, sour notes. He awkwardly lays there, avoiding the urge to roll towards him and--what? Comfort him? Yusuf laments taking his life the first go around, but the man’s tenacious savagery makes sympathy impossible to conjure up. 

The alarm bells abruptly clamour, ripping Yusuf out of his thoughts. Their garish clanging echoes along the gloomy hills. Two heads whirl to the city just as a mighty boom and crash erupt. The bells continue ringing, hammering away in his ears--or, that could be his heart pounding in fear. 

Yusuf gasps, “The gates!” He stands, wobbling, and tries scaling the back up the ravine. The task is arduous and nearly impossible, so he opts for following the valley eastwards. Hopefully that will lead out to where he remembers the guards’ entrance being. A great roaring cheer of thousands of bloodthirsty Franks heralds the silencing of the bells. _No_ … 

“They have the city,” the omega says tonelessly, empty--with a finality that coats his insides like oil, thick and viscous. He pursues Yusuf a scant few metres behind, his footsteps a dogged shadow. By now, Yusuf knows better than to present his backside to a man who’s taken advantage of all his vulnerabilities. 

_Let the Frank try._ They’ve already proven it will only slow them down. 

As petrified as he is by this abhorrent affliction they share, there are more pressing issues. The city needs to be his main priority. Forget all his doubts, every ounce of hesitancy, because Yusuf swore his sword, swore on his honor, that he would see Jerusalem protected. 

If he can just reach the streets in time, maybe… Maybe, Yusuf can make a difference! Hands clenched so hard his leather gloves squeak, Yusuf squares his shoulders and draws himself to his fullest height. He sets off in a dead sprint, leaping over the dead both friendly and foreign. Their agonized faces drooping, limbs twisted in rigor, their sightless mocking--all a blur to Yusuf as he runs. His heart feels too large and full for his ribcage to contain. Thump-thump! Thump-thump! The clatter of armor and measured chuffing at his heels as the omega follows is all the companionship Allah affords His loyal servant. The irony hasn’t escaped unnoticed. 

The ravine levels out, slowly but surely, into even ground. Yusuf scales up the last boulder and rounds the corner--only to skid to a halt. Behind him, the omega nearly crushes against his back, stopping himself at the last moment by latching onto Yusuf’s belt. The two shove each other away at the same moment. Unfortunately, Yusuf’s strength sends the omega toppling over onto the ground. He can’t spare him a wince, he’s too distracted by the horror unfolding before his eyes. 

The gate is wide open. A mob of Franks barrel through, trampling each other in their fervent haste to dash inside. The ruckus is enormous--shouting and cheering, hooping and hollering, weapons waving above the massive throng as they rush into Jerusalem to pillage and ransack. And they outnumber him ten-to-one. Yusuf has failed. His heart plummets.

He’s _failed_. 

Yusuf goes numb. The backs of his ears buzz and his arms hang loosely at his flanks. All because--

“You!” he hisses with so much vitriol as he can muster. Spinning around he finds the omega still prone at his feet. The man shores his defenses, but he submits just as quickly, all that feral ferocity extinguished. Now, he is simply a man at the mercy of Yusuf’s righteous outburst. 

“Is this what you wanted?! All this death--” his words are jumbled in multiple languages, Yusuf rips off his gloves and throws them at the man, “--all this destruction!” a ruined vambrace hits his face and he cowers, but Yusuf’s misery is not done, not yet. His soul is sullied, unclean by all this futile violence. _But you are an alpha, it is in your blood._ He howls like a wounded creature, hating himself, hating what he has become. 

When he runs out of armor Yusuf tosses sticks and stones. Most are small and easily sail past the flinching man, but Yusuf keeps at it because he’s too raw with grief to listen to the voice in his head shouting at him to _stop_. And the omega accepts the abuse, takes it like a penitent sinner before the ire of his community. 

“And for what? What?!” 

“I did not ask for this,” the omega cries melancholically. 

“No? Well neither did we!” He waves his hand over Jerusalem, the sounds of tortured screaming preceding the rising of the sun. The first rays of light break sluggishly over the battlefields, saturating them in scarlet. Red on red. Worthy of any ballad. Suddenly, Yusuf gags, hunching over his knees with a dull sob. He breathes through it, slow and steady, until he’s empty, hollow. 

The omega’s jaw spasms and eyes squeeze shut. His fingers crook against his mouth and Yusuf catches the slight tremble as he mutters under this breath. “ _Ave Maria, gratia plena,_ _Dominus tecum_ \--” a litany repeated over and over again. 

“Make sure you pray for the dead in between all that self-deprecation,” he speaks in his best possible Ligurian. The words, stilted as they are on his tongue, ring loud and clear.

The omega says nothing. 

Yusuf turns on his heel and marches away. Away from this man, away from this battle, away from this city. Away from _his_ failure. 

“Stop!” 

Yusuf does no such thing.

“Stop--Where are you going?” He’s lurched back around by his shoulder. The omega is both panicked and offended by his retreat. Yusuf rips away from him and glares.

“Home.” 

He doesn’t look back.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love you hear your thoughts so far! Next chapter is an unfriendly road trip.


	3. The Pilgrim’s Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò blinks awake. He doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing.
> 
> His knuckles ache from clenching in his sleep. Flexing his hands, Nicolò discovers dried blood under his dirty nail beds and in the grooves of his palms. Any self-inflicted wounds have long since miraculously healed. He can’t find it in himself to feel any relief.
> 
> ‘Miracle’ is not an apt description of Nicolò’s…affliction. This undying state he’s inexplicably cursed with is nothing short of a living nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ***THIS CHAPTER has depictions of child neglect and child abuse, as Nico's childhood is Not Nice!***
> 
> [Avanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avanie), my love, THANK YOU for beta-ing this hot mess!! Without you I would be hopeless!! 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has dropped kudos and/ore left comments! I'm super bad at replying to them, but please know, every single one makes my day!! <3 (I'll try and do better at replying...)

_The prioress towers before the slab of her desk, bony arms hidden in the folds of her oversized robes. A weak beam of pale sunlight filters through the narrow window slit, outlining her silhouette in white. Shadows play over her sunken face, white and black like a skull._

_He tries not to stare, tries not to let loose the deluge of tears lest he receive another paddling. The last flagellation still stings along his backside, making him fidget on the spot--they hate it when he squirms._

_“You are an ungrateful whelp!” The Prioress glares. His little head hangs in shame. “Luckily for you, you’ve sworn your vows and that keeps me from kicking you to the streets.” She begins circling him, like a big fish eyeing a drowning bug. He tugs his threadbare sleeves, his face reddening under the inspection._

_“To think we spared you the misery of whoring yourself to every filthy alpha cock Genova’s slums have to offer. Gave you food and shelter and purpose--and you repay us by disobeying our creed?”_

_He sniffles. **Weak**._

_The prioress pulls a long lock of his hair and pinches his earring hard enough to make him cry out. Small teeth instinctively bite, catching one thin finger and drawing a bead of blood--“Ah! Insolent brat!” The slap rings loudly in the chamber, followed by his shocked whimper. His cheek immediately swells._

_“Send him to solitary-” he sobs at the mere mention of the cold, pitch-black crypt “-if he refuses his communion with our Saint, keep him there and withhold his supper.”_

_The monk seizes him by the scruff of his neck and hauls him away faster than his scrawny legs can handle._

_“Remember your place, oblate!”_

_The Prioress’ angry voice follows him as he’s dragged, kicking and clawing, deep down into the belly of the monastery. He’s swallowed by the winding stone staircase into the damp dark, to be thrown atop molding hay. The lock latches loudly in place. He flails around blindly to find the door and slam his little fists into the grain._

_He screams himself hoarse, until there’s nothing left but silence._

***

Nicolò blinks awake. He doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing.

He hasn’t dreamt about the Dark Room in ages. Not since he was given the cross and ordered to carry it east two years prior. He can almost feel the rough wood shredding his nails. For a moment he’s scared he’ll find splinters embedded in his skin, but that’s only his imagination.

His knuckles ache from clenching in his sleep. Flexing his hands, Nicolò discovers dried blood under his dirty nail beds and in the grooves of his palms. Any self-inflicted wounds have long since _miraculously_ healed. He can’t find it in himself to feel any relief.

‘Miracle’ is not an apt description of Nicolò’s… _affliction_. This undying state he’s inexplicably cursed with is nothing short of a living nightmare. The Dark Room is just a reminder of why he’s here, lost in the Holy Lands: God has truly forsaken him.

The thought makes his lip quiver, his chest grows hot while his stomach roils. Nicolò has no one to blame but himself--he failed to atone for his sins.

_‘I hereby sentence you, Nicolò di Genova--’_ NO! Nicolò curls in on himself. No, don’t think about that, anything but that!

Nicolò groans and rolls onto his side to face the dying campfire. The scavenged brush logs are blackened husks that only barely smolder. He gazes at the amber and orange embers until the pain in his guts fades, until his eyes hurt from the light. Blinking away the sting, Nicolò shifts his attention just beyond the fire pit.

There is a distinct lump laying in the dirt opposite of Nicolò. His lips thin grimly.

The pagan alpha.

He’s wrapped the remnants of his clothes around his shoulders and sleeps fitfully with the fabric clenched beneath his beard. Nicolò ought to feed the fire before it extinguishes completely. His body twinges in protest. He doesn’t move.

The thought of more heat on his too-flushed face makes him queasy. All of Nicolò’s muscles tingle and ache, not unlike the spasms he gets when he overextends his training. What’s worse, there’s a headache looming on the horizon of his consciousness. More water might help.

With shaking limbs, Nicolò pushes himself upright. Dust falls off his shoulders--perhaps it’s the hard ground that discomforts him? His jerky movements fail to disturb the other camper. Nicolò frowns. Only one full day spent travelling together, and Nicolò already questions how this man has survived so long on his own. He can’t start a fire, can’t catch dinner, and sleeps like the dead. An enemy could literally trip over him at night and the alpha wouldn’t stir.

Said alpha snuffles, mouth agape and drooling. Black ringlets cover his forehead and pool under his furred cheek. He’s dirty with oil, sweat, and blood. Not that Nicolò fairs any better. His skin itches something fierce, desperate to shed all this accumulated grime.

Nicolò spares him a second glance then shuffles away towards the nearby stream.

Dawn begins breaking over the craggy hills of…wherever they are. Somewhere east of Jerusalem. It is arid here, as if the hills behind squeezed any moisture coming in off the sea and left the lands below parched with want for water.

Yesterday, they had walked mindlessly with the white sun and bloody city at their backs. Descending into the treacherous summit, they followed an old winding road, into a yawning valley. He recalled kicking his feet, sand and dirt swirling to reveal familiar stones. An old Roman road. Perhaps the same as Jesus walked in the tale of the Good Samaritan?

But as they’d trudging on, both silent and stony in their mutual presences, Nicolò felt the opposite of awed. For someone as cursed as he, it felt wrong following Christ’s footsteps. Still, one foot in front of the other. Past neck-breaking ravines, zigzagging through hedges of purpled heather and lone spindly pines. The occasional tall cypress had greeted them around random corners. Nicolò dallied for as long as he could, touching the scaly leaves and inhaling the timber notes. So reminiscent of home that Nicolò remembered nearly nearly weeping right then and there.

Surprised by the rush of inexplicable emotion, he’d spur himself onwards after the alpha before he was left behind. Nicolò had kept the man in sight, staring at his neck and shoulders. Daring him to swing around for an attack. He frustrates Nicolò to no end. The urge to rile him, instigate another fight is strong. How can he leave his duty unfinished?

_You were supposed to die!_

Nicolò gulps at this coldness of his thoughts, coming to a standstill at the stream’s edge. The waters are green in the deeper pools, but at least it’s flowing. Arms hugging himself, he toes off his leather turn-shoes. They’ve seen better days; the sinew thread has popped on some of the seams. Fortunately, the curse that keeps them from dying also spares them other ailments such as foot rot.

His toes are cold, but the warm waters chase the numbness away. Morning casts a soft glow over the rocky enclosure. It will be another hot day. Nicolò is acutely aware of their lack of waterskins. Can they die of thirst? Or will they only crawl and suffer in the desert forever?

What he wouldn’t give for a cup of tea right now. As a child, he used to hate the bitter drink. Now, as an adult, Nicolò misses how perky and alert the brewed herbs made him feel. He could use some now to settle his sour stomach. It’s been days since he and his Damarite companions broke their fast with their traditional communal beverage. Nicolò’s heart plummets, growing somber from the bittersweet reminder. They’re all dead and gone. Except Nicolò…

He frowns, wiggling his toes and stirring up the silky sediment. It quickly floats away down stream. Small comforts, though Nicolò doesn’t deserve such succor.

‘ _For your crime, you shall take up the Lord’s cross--_ ’

Nicolò abruptly whines, crouching over his haunches. His breath comes fast, hands shaking as cups water and splashes it over his face. It feels akin to a slap and he snarls. He does it again and again until his neck and tunic are soaked. He clenches his hands into fists tight enough to pop the knuckles. _Stop it! Control yourself!_ Nicolò closes his eyes and counts. Soon enough the tremors abate. All that’s left is the melodic rush of water and chirping birds.

His stomach growls obnoxiously.

Nicolò sighs, staring at the river rock as if they could solve his problems. The stream carries no fish, but it will likely attract game. He spies a particularly nasty-looking rock at the edge of the stream. Gripping it, Nicolò thumbs the sharp edges, letting the pain ground him to the present.

Hunting is a good enough start to the day as any.

***

When Nicolò returns to camp with a hare, he immediately notices two very irritating things.

One, the alpha is awake. He’s patting his hair clean with his tattered cloak, black curls shimmering like volcanic glass. Obviously fresh from the stream, he seems in a far better spirits. Straightening, the alpha flicks his hair back. It slaps against the rinsed tunic clinging to his back. Nicolò does not stare at the play of muscles. No, he in fact _glares_.

Because the second annoyance is the complete lack of fire to cook with. Nicolò curses his own stupidity. The alpha whirls around at the low growl. His dark eyes narrow at the sight of him, then widen comically as he babbles in his eastern tongue. The language is unintelligible to Nicolò’s hot ears, ringing inside his head until his skull pounds. He ignores the alpha and gathers dry materials to coax the fire back to life.

The alpha waves a hand at Nicolò, at the blood spackling Nicolò’s arms and belt. “Your blood?” The alpha switches into their shared language, the one Nicolò listened to growing up on the Genoan docks. His chest hurts to hear it, even when heavily accented.

After many hours of sullen silence, the conversation actually grates on Nicolò’s nerves. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing blood.

Nicolò points stiffly at the fluffy mound, “Rabbit’s.”

Then promptly kneels to start the fire anew.

“Looks like you slaughtered a whole field of them,” the alpha deadpans.

“It made me chase it,” is all he replies. Face buried in ashes, Nicolò blows gently on the logs, careful not to inhale anything hot. Hopefully, he can stoke the embers into reigniting. Otherwise, he’ll have to use the striker, and the metal is too poor of quality to spark correctly.

Eyes bore into the back of his head. It worsens his mood. Instead of snapping, Nicolò busies himself applying dried grass to the hottest logs. Silence is interspersed with his steady puffs of air.

“How are you going to--”

“Roast it.”

The alpha sighs, arms akimbo, “Yes, of course! But with _what?_ ” “Fire,” and like an answered prayer, the tinder catches. Nicolò talks over the alpha and feeds the flame, “Which I would not have had to fuel if you had not let it die in the first place.” It’s not fair, blaming the alpha for his own mistake, but Nicolò is petulant. Why must every task fall to him to complete?

“You were gone,” the alpha says as Nicolò impales the animal with a stick. He adds off-handedly, “Hopefully for good this time!”

He sets the meat to cook over the flames then hits the alpha with a menacing look. “Yes, you want me dead,” Nicolò says, dryer than their landscape, “your shrillness has not gone unheard.”

“Shrill??”

“Like a bird.”

“I _never_ said I wanted you dead, you prickly--” he turns in a tight circle, switching to his native tongue and mumbling what are undoubtedly insults.

The scent of burning rabbit fur is distasteful. Nicolò’s stomach churns, scuttling away from the smoke column. Unfortunately, it brings him closer to the alpha. He resents the man’s presence, his spicy scent that wafts with every stomp. A pressure intensifies behind his face that no amount of rubbing will alleviate.

“--Why do you even follow, I cannot understand. Go back to your people, back to your pillaging. Your home is behind you, so return to it!”

“I cannot!” Nicolò growls, angrily scratching his hands over his scalp.

His hair is sprouting and he hasn’t the tools to shave it. His kit was left behind in a neat bundle at the foot of an abandoned cot. The bristles abrade his palms, making his skin burn. Fingernails rake across his head, pulling harshly at his greasy tuft of hair. Nicolò raises welts that rapidly heal. He scratches the linen stretched over his shoulders. Nothing quells the blossoming itch prickling in his veins.

The alpha is still chattering. Vexing. Cloying.

“ _Shut up!_ ”

The shout scatters birds.

“Typical,” the alpha says, “your kind is always angry.”

“M-my kind?” Nicolò hisses. _Crouching before a horse, gambeson hiked to his hips, hundreds staring, hoping for a glimpse_. He struggles onto wobbly legs, “My kind?!” Nicolò bares his teeth as he storms across their small campsite.

“See, this is what I mean!” The alpha stands his ground, though his arms cross protectively over his chest. “All you Franks are filled with madness and rage!”

Nicolò stops short, a bark of laughter punched out of his lungs--not an _omega_ , he’s a _Frank!_ “I am no Frank, you pompous, puffed-up, ignorant--”

“Ignorant??” The other’s arms drop to his sides, his brow slants, “You invaded us with no idea of what history you trample over!”

They’ve only spoken stilted sentences since the battlefield, hardly anticipating any answer. This is something utterly different. Like a pot ready to boil over. The two of them are toe-to-toe, fortifying for a vicious, knock-down, drag-out fight. Nicolò’s blood pounds, ears buzzing from the sheer intensity of their mounting hormones.

“Filthy, odious, feral vagabond!”

“Rich, pampered, spoiled idiot!”

“Oh, my apologies,” the alpha gasps melodramatically, “Not all of us salivate at the thought of murdering things!”

_‘You must be unsympathetic. Cold. Detached.’_

“I-I do not! I am not a--” Nicolò wheezes, veins burning. _‘Take the knife, oblates, and slice. As the Sister has demonstrated, from ear to ear. Show no remorse.’_

“You destroyed entire villages, massacred countless people, and for what?” The alpha shows him no mercy. _Just as you deserve_ , a voice whispers in his head. Nicolò snaps at him, but it’s weak. _He_ is weak. “For a God we share but have the audacity to honour differently?”

_‘Oblate! Why do you hesitate? Put it down quickly, cleanly. Oh, by Heaven--so weak!’_

Nicolò’s breath is quickening. His trembling hands shove at the alpha, sending him stumbling backwards.

_‘Sniveling baby! Must I do everything myself?’_

He shouts, unsure at whom, “I am not weak!”

The alpha hesitates, bewildered. Always confused, this one! Nicolò hears the little lamb bleating. He rushes the other, like a man possessed. His pathetic body is failing him--he flails uselessly, aiming for the alpha’s luminous eyes. His fist lands short, just cuffing him on the ear before his wrists are caught.

“What is that smell?”

_His stench followed him to bed, coating his thighs_. Twisting, Nicolò pants, “Take your disgusting hands off me!!”

“Stop it! Your blood!” Worry trickles into the alpha’s voice. It echoes inside his head, stabbing into the back of his eye.

Nicolò groans, sweating copiously, “I told you, it is the rabbit!”

“No,” the alpha shakes him, hard enough to make his teeth clack. Sanity knocks back into him, chasing away the hallucinations. “You are bleeding!” Alarmed, the alpha lets one hand go to brush Nicolò’s face. Taking advantage of the loose grip, Nicolò wriggles free and skitters away.

Only when he’s safely opposite the fire, with the smell of charcoal and cooking meat between them, does he see the crimson smeared across the alpha’s fingers. Earthy-brown eyes pinch with concern. They rest on Nicolò’s nose.

His hand flies up just as a fresh trail of hot blood oozes over his top lip. Reality comes crashing down on him. His head still feels like it’s about to split apart.

Moaning, Nicolò rubs his scalp. He seethes when his eyes prickle. _What is wrong with me?_

The alpha cautiously steps towards him, like Nicolò is nothing more than a frightened animal up for slaughter.

“D-don’t!” Nicolò hurries away, bile rising up his throat. The alpha stops dead in his tracks, holds his hands up, and stays on his side of the camp. Nicolò stares unblinking--

\--then pivots on his heel and promptly runs away.

***

Nicolò slumps in the deepest end of the stream, skin pruny and muscles weak. No matter how hard he scrubs, Nicolò can’t scour the wrongness away. It lies just beneath the surface of his skin, and neither nails nor rocks will dig it out. The marks split open and run red down pinked flesh. They knit closed after a breath or two. The blood is swept away by the current but the unease lingers. He swallows a scream down, like the bile before that.

Forehead pressed against drawn knees, Nicolò hugs his legs and tries calming down. Anxiety is a dark cavern he must climb out of, trying not to trip as the ground shakes. His breathing techniques fail him right when they’re needed the most. He drifts, shaking and whimpering, with only the alpha’s words to accompany him.

Nicolò didn’t ask for this--his eastward exile, his cursed healing, the unending purgatory. He didn’t ask for it, but he _participated_ nonetheless. Because he is a good little soldier and when they demand cut throats, Nicolò heeds the command. He _obeys_ and it is by _his_ blade that innocent lives are ruined. God’s holy lands spilled with blood, soaking the sands and feeding the roots of palms and olives. _Oh Lord, is this your will?_

To add to the growing list of Nicolo’s shame, he is marked a _deserter_ as well. There’s no greater cowardice than abandoning the war altogether. And he walked away entirely of his own free will, following the enemy far from the army without pause. He fears what retribution lies in store for him if he is ever caught.

Fears the voice inside his head telling him to go back and face his punishment like he deserves.

He soaks in the water for who knows how long.

“We should reach Jericho soon,” the alpha awkwardly parlays when Nicolò returns, damp and tired. He definitely doesn’t miss the usage of ‘we’. As thick as his Sabir is, the alpha never bungles his conjugations.

“Jericho,” Nicolò repeats.

“Yes, at our pace, I’d say by nightfall at least.”

“Nightfall. Jericho…” Nicolò stares at the fire. It’s died again, deliberately this time--sand has smothered the fire out. A portion of rabbit is set aside for him, cold and charred, but edible.

Nicolò chews mindlessly as they continue their journey, staring at a mass of black hair on a backdrop of sallow rocky peaks. Why Nicolò bothers following is a mystery, one he asks himself repeatedly, questions rattling away like birds in a cage. The other occasionally turns and regards him with an unreadable expression.

Surprisingly, the alpha is more talkative _after_ their fight. He points out features of the dry, sunbaked lands. ‘Wadi’ he patiently explains, gesturing to the rivulets running through the steep gorge. They pass sporadic caves dotting the crags--hermit holes apparently, though unoccupied as far as he can tell. The alpha recounts history and folklore, many Biblical and thus as familiar as children’s stories to Nicolò.

His knowledge is…frankly astounding. Unexpected. _You thought they were all dull-witted pagans, living like barbarians._ Was everything a lie? Nicolò focuses on the rough timber of his voice and lets himself be distracted from darker musings.

Late in the day, the alpha grinds to a halt. Nicolò stops as well, confused.

“Jericho?”

“Sorry,” the alpha shrugs, “I do not believe we will make it before nightfall. But we can rest here safely.” He squints against the sun and points at the cliffs. Huddled in the stony ridges is a deteriorating ruin. It towers many meters above their heads as if carved out of the very earth by giants.

He tilts his head back, “What is that?”

“Old monastery,” the alpha replies, leading them around a bend to reveal a hidden staircase. Nicolò wavers at the first step. Is he being dumped here? Will they toss him into the basement for his disobedience? A noise rushes in his throat.

The alpha stares, puzzled. “It is abandoned,” he reassures, “no one visits this place anymore.”

“Why?”

At the tenth step, he turns back. Draped in remnants of silks and ascending with the sun haloed behind his head, the alpha looks like a melancholic angel. His eyes grow distant and he simply states, “They say it is haunted.”

Nicolò follows breathlessly. _Do you believe in ghosts?_

They reach the top, slipping underneath precarious archways and broken columns. The front courtyard is overcome with fauna. A wild date palm, laden with fruit, grows crookedly towards the sun. The hallway into the building fairs only slightly better.

“What happened here?” Nicolò asks quietly. His fingers skim through dust, dragging feather-light tracks along a smashed ledge.

“The Persians destroyed it many years ago,” the alpha says morosely, “in another war for conquest. It never changes does it?”

“And,” Nicolò asks, paling, “The monks?”

“Dead, I assume.” The alpha notices his discomfort and hastens with, “or fled! Into the caves?”

“We would have returned,” Nicolò whispers, “If we survived, we would have rebuilt and continued again.” He studies the cobwebs, the faded scorch marks, the brittle walls. This place is a cemetery.

The alpha’s moustache twitches, “‘We’? Are you a priest?”

“No,” Nicolò brushes past him, deeper into the bowls of the monastery, “a monk.”

“Pardon me, but you are not very,” the alpha motions skeptically, eyebrows hiking up his forehead, “monk-like.”

_‘Insolent brat!’_ Nicolò shudders, turning a corner and discovering what used to be the dormitory. He shivers--perhaps due to the collapsed outlying wall exposing the room to the open air outside. This far up, the wind howls. Like ghosts.

“I am a Damarite monk,” Nicolò says absently, “of the order of Saint Damaris.” He flips over the bed frames, wood disintegrating when touched. Just as he suspected, there are built-in cubbies beneath. A few contain blankets, folded neatly away and none too worse for wear.

The alpha putters around, likewise stripping the room for useful tools. “Never heard of them before. Then again, you Christians have many, many saints.” He plucks an iron poker out from a crevice, “Is that why you have such an odd haircut?”

It’s not an insult, merely stating the obvious. Nicolò finds it easy enough to elaborate. If the alpha could spend countless hours sharing stories, why can’t Nicolò reciprocate in kind? “We are an ancient order of omegas. As the good Lady Damaris did for God, so too have we sworn our lives to combat. The hair, the earrings--it sets us apart from commoners.”

The alpha wrings the poker in his hands, “Sounds miserable.” Despite Nicolò’s scowl he continues nonplussed, “Warriors forever? What must your family say about that?”

“We give up such frivolous things when we swear our oaths of lifelong piety and chastity.”

“Frivolous?” The other’s mouth drops open, eyes shrewd, “And chastity? What sort of cruelty is that? For an omega no less? Not even _children?_ ”

He remembers Michelino. A sweet face still padded with baby fat. How he purred while cradling the boy in his sleep.

“No,” Nicolò wads the blankets and storms past the bewildered man, “not even that.” He holds his breath so as not to inhale the scent of sorrow wafting off the alpha.

They comb the rest of the monastery, finding a spear and a shovel before calling it a day. Tunics tied into makeshift baskets, they collect dates from the tree. It’s not a feast, but the fruits are tasty enough to settle Nicolò’s upset stomach. They stand side-by-side in amicable silence and watch the sun set over God’s vast land. It’s peaceful this far up--the views stunning and the breeze cool. With the skies fading from blue to purple, it’s easy to forget who they are and why they’re here.

A small caravan meanders through the twisting pass, camels bellowing and bells clamoring. Nicolò listens to the mild conversations echoing up the bluff. They make no plans to camp.

“Ahl al-Kitab pilgrimage through these parts three times annually,” the alpha says, chewing on a date.

Nicolò scrunches his nose up. Maybe he misheard?

“Oh, sorry,” the alpha chuckles genially, “How shall I say it?” He strokes his bushy beard and Nicolò reads the motion as a tic. One Nicolò begins recognizing as his ‘thinking face.’

“They are the, ‘People of the Book.’ Those who do not acknowledge the Prophet--” he dissolves into his own language, something-something salam? Then he switches back to Sabir, “Yet you still believe Allah’s will. So,” he points at Nicolò, “Christians,” then gestures down the ravine at the robed figures clinking merrily on their way. “And Jews.”

Nicolò watches the pilgrims pass. “People…of the Bible?”

The alpha shakes his head, patiently. “No,” he says firmly, “ _The_ Book. Your Bible is not the only Word of God, little omega.”

Nicolò glowers at him, prickling with indignation. Not about religion, but--

“Do not call me that!”

Another date halfway to his mouth, the alpha drops his hand and faces him. “What then shall I call you?” His face is serious. Nicolò shies away from the intensity of his gaze.

The other sighs, exhausted, “It has been almost three nights since we killed one another, and intimate as we are with our deaths, we are but strangers to each other.”

Nicolò mutters, “What makes you so sure we will stay together long enough for it to matter?”

The alpha tilts his head, pondering the cracks and crevices of the deserted monastery. He sucks on his teeth and says, almost timid, “Somehow, I highly doubt Allah would grant us these abilities if He did not intend for us to walk the same path.”

Could that be true? Is this new existence really divine destiny and not a curse? Nicolò desperately wants to believe that. They ponder the words, uninterrupted by their own perceptions of God.

Abruptly decided, he announces, “Nicolò.”

“Eh?”

He rolls his eyes heavenward, contemplating walking away. “My name,” he says slow and low, “is Nicolò.”

The alpha cheers. He shares a winsome smile that brightens his whole face like Nicolò’s never seen before. “And I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani,” he says.

Nicolò shakes his head in bewilderment. Surely the man is playing a prank on him! He stammers, “What?”

“Also known as al-Tayyib.”

This time, Nicolò _does_ leave.

The alpha’s ringing laugh escorts him down the hall as he blushes ridiculously.

***

Light from the fire casts long, flickering shadows over the blackened walls. Cracks in the stone pulse like lighting. It should be menacing. Nicolò only feels sad. There are spirits here, shifting in the alcoves, solemnly watching the pair that cannot die. Immortals among the immortalized. Perhaps they too are saddened by the lonely pair.

Nicolò steals furtive glances at the alpha across from him. The light casts the alpha’s skin a radiant gold, his large eyes molten and shiny. He is prone to fretting, Nicolò can see it clearly now that he has a quiet moment to observe him properly. He often wrings his long-fingered hands, fussing with the baubles hugging his knuckles. The smell of anxiety and pain is a lingering, sharp note underneath his natural musk. Perplexingly, Nicolò’s own body responds by leaning closer.

“I was supposed to die,” Nicolò confesses. He picks at their makeshift bedding, fingers refusing to stay idle in the hush of nightfall. The logs spit, popping sparks across the old tile. The embers flare brightly then cool. Tonight is a night worth sharing secrets.

The alpha, _Yusuf_ , pauses with a fresh log hovering over the fire. When he struggles for words, his tongue dabs his bottom lip. Nicolò already understands him to be a man of great vocabulary and forethought. He digests and weighs each sentence incoming and outgoing. Spoiled, yes, but arrogant? It shames him to recall his earlier, flippant assessment. The wood is dumped unceremoniously, rousing up a wave of yellow embers.

“Yes, I do remember killing you,” Yusuf says, stiltedly. His long fingers stretch towards the pit to bask in the reinvigorated warmth, his multitude of rings shimmering. “I was supposed to die as well after you ripped me open.”

“No, you misunderstand,” Nicolò shakes his head. Before he can rephrase, a scream tears through inky black. Both men jerk to attention. In a flash, they’re up on their feet and down the hall with their improvised weapons held in white-knuckled grips.

Nicolò reaches the crumbling walls first, leaning over for a better look. The moon is still waxing from it’s disappearance merely days ago, but there are beads of torchlight flickering below. At first, Nicolò worries they are under attack. The sounds of an obvious scuffle reverberate throughout the cavern. The quarrel is not with them.

“Bandits,” Yusuf whispers, his tone icy with disapproval. His tawny face is harrowed and torn with indecision.

Nicolò hisses, “The pilgrims!” He kicks off the wall and runs towards the entrance.

“What are you-- _omega!_ Nicolò!” Yusuf shouts after him, head whipping back and forth.

Nicolò refuses to stop and wait for him. The broken stairs are winding and Nicolò slips more than once, rolling his ankles only to heal a moment later. When the ground levels out beneath his feet, Nicolò flies into the fray. With just the sliver of the moon to guide him and a handful of the pilgrims’ torches scattered in the dirt, Nicolò dives into battle with practiced fury.

The bandits are garbed in plain robes and sturdy leathers. They circle and jeer at a fallen Jewish pilgrim--an omega. Nicolò chokes on rage. Armed with only a spear, he charges and pierces one through the back. The man screams in shock, head snapping back as Nicolò pulls out with a wet squelch. He doesn’t watch him collapse, too busy twirling the shaft to smash the jaw of another. That one goes flying, head over heels, to land with a sick crunch over a bed of rocks.

There are five left, three with curved swords, one with an axe, and another snapping a bullwhip. He eyes that one warily. Their bellies are fat from gorging themselves on pilfered goods, it will slow their reaction times. Probably never faced a warrior of Nicolò’s skill, so used to robbing innocent travelers blind. They will be overconfident.

Nicolò howls, taunting them closer. They abandon one omega for another.

A sword curves in an undercut. Nicolò parries with the butt end of his spear, hooking it under the bandit’s arm as he draws up and dislocates the joint at the shoulder. Dazed, the bandit can’t stop Nicolò from rushing in to crush his throat bone with the wooden shaft.

Four.

Nicolò spins, taking the spear with him to scatter the swordsmen back. They’re confused, using arrogance in place of competence to fight. One bandit goes high and leaps, so Nicolò goes low and ducks. The spearhead breaks off in the bandit’s groin, blood speckling Nicolò’s face. He crumples in a blubbering heap and Nicolò discards the spear for the curved sword he dropped.

Three.

The axeman is dexterous, attacking with one hand only to drop the weapon into the other to attack at a different angle. The weight of his new sword is all wrong. Nicolò grunts as he earns a slice up his leg for his miscalculation. He gives the bandit no victory; Nicolò guts him and leaves him in the dirt to die.

Two.

The whip cracks and suddenly Nicolò’s arm flairs in agony. He’s jerked face-first to the ground, sword dropping as his arm catches in the leather coil. The bandit grimaces, reeling him in like a fish on a line. _Down into the crypt to lock you away in the cold dark._ Nicolò kicks furiously, screaming.

Coalescing out of the darkness is Yusuf, wielding the poker like a sword. He surprises the last swordsman and knocks him upside the head. The bandit flops in the dirt--out but alive. That leaves the bandit currently digging a dagger into Nicolò’s throat.

The bandit yells something in Yusuf’s language, prompting the alpha to hastily drop the poker. The fight comes to an eerie standstill with Nicolò on his knees, braced against the tense beta, and Yusuf’s hands up in supplication.

Nicolò squirms against the hold, earning a stinging nick. “What are you doing? Kill him!”

However, Yusuf is speaking to the bandit rapidly, his voice breaking. He’s…pleading? Nicolò can’t believe it, he watches Yusuf pull off one of his rings and offer it, gesturing to Nicolò. He keeps his tone calm, despite the tremor in his hand. The silver gleams in the torch light.

The bandit hisses sharp words and Yusuf shouts, running towards the two of them. The forearm holding the dagger flexes and there’s only seconds to spare--but Nicolò rocks backwards, grips the beta’s wrist, and bites.

Blood spurts across Nicolò’s tongue. The bandit screams in agony just as Yusuf throws himself at them. They go rolling.

It’s Nicolò who grabs the fallen dagger. Nicolò, who twists and plunges it right into the heart of the bandit while Yusuf holds him down. Nicolò, who numbly stands and ends the unconscious bandit’s life. He staggers away from the ring of corpses, deaf to Yusuf’s pleas. Every muscle in his body cries out for rest. _When will my work be done?_ He is drenched in blood when he stumbles over the omega hiding in the shrubs.

_Blue eyes peering from lanky blonde hair she shivers_ \--no, _he_ shivers. The Jewish _boy_ , with brown ringlets and black eyes. He scurries to his feet, staring at Nicolò as if he were a phantom, and flees in a flurry of tassels. Presumably towards the rest of the surviving caravan.

Yusuf gags, face scrunching briefly as he rests his hands over his knees and breathes. And Nicolò? He is white-hot with anger. He ignores the alpha, occupying himself with stripping the corpses for anything useful. Then they march back up to the monastery.

At the top of the stairs, in the safety of the courtyard, all hell finally breaks loose.

“You _hesitated!_ ”

Tossing down their loot, he whirls on the alpha and glares.

Yusuf asks incredulously, frozen and dumbstruck, “You call diplomacy ‘hesitation?’”

Nicolò throws his hands up in frustration, “What gave you the impression those robbers wanted a peaceful solution with a knife to my throat?”

Yusuf stomps up into Nicolò’s space, eyes full of depth--an endless chasm he cannot fathom. It’s this morning all over again. Heat and pheromones brew between them, frothing like ocean waves in a squall.

“ _Exactly!_ You were in _danger!_ ” Yusuf cries.

“It did not matter! We cannot die,” Nicolò says snidely.

“So I was supposed to let him kill you?!”

“Yes!” Nicky roars, “Then kill _him!_ ”

Yusuf shakes his head, curls bouncing wildly, “Not everyone can be a cold, unfeeling golem like you when faced with such a terrible decision!”

“Cold?” Nicolò hounds at Yusuf’s heels when he shows his back. He tries to flee down the hall, but Nicolò refuses to let this go unfinished. “You call me cold while you, an _alpha_ , let yourself be humbled by baser prey?” Nicolò jerks him around.

“Have I not done enough?” Yusuf suddenly shouts, voice crackling like fragile glass. “Have I not gone above and beyond duty? I left behind my home, my _family_ , to fight. And look what has happened to me,” he chokes abruptly, body curling in on itself. “Every night I see the accusing faces of the dead. I close my eyes and remember every life I took…” Yusuf collapses on a block of rubble.

“I feel like I have lost a piece of my soul!” He finishes with a weary sob, hanging his head into his hands.

Shaken to his core by such raw honesty, Nicolò nevertheless whispers, “How can you be so childish?”

Yusuf hears him. He springs to attention, revealing wet tear tracks staining his cheeks. Face twisting, he croaks out in shock, “Excuse me?”

_Kill the kindness._

Doubt is a foreign sensation, one that ripples unchecked throughout Nicolò. The crescent moon is a sliver that shines just as brightly as the neighboring stars. He begrudges their gaiety, just assuredly as he hates himself for what he must do next. He would spare Yusuf this lesson if he could. Didn’t he try with Michelino? His heart lurches. Was the boy even alive?

“If you believe you have any choice at all in this, then you are wrong,” Nicolò says reluctantly, haunted by the memories of a blonde woman crying out for help. Of the alpha that loomed over her cowering form. Nicolò scratches at his own lips, “In _this_ world, it is kill or be killed. Alphas take and omegas--” his breath hiccups, “--omegas, we…”

“T-that is no way for someone to live,” Yusuf shakes his head, sorrow written into every line of his face. _That is no way for **you** to live_, goes unsaid.

“Raise your sword next time,” Nicolò mutters, “Or suffer the consequences of your softness.” Scooping up their spoils, he abandons Yusuf to his misery.

He swore an oath. _Duty, suffrage, sacrifice, honor_.

Repeating it doesn’t help the roiling sickness festering his insides.


	4. A Crack in the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In these dank, dark ruins, wrapped in dead men’s sheets, it’s too easy for resentment to creep inside and wear him thin. Of all the poor men, women, and children of Jerusalem, only Yusuf is spared the horrible siege. No, that is incorrect. Him and _one other_.
> 
> Allah’s defender stuck with the agent of aggression. Plucked out of the mortal web together. They say He works in mysterious ways…but tying Yusuf’s unending existence with his enemy is cosmically ironic. It stings as unforgivably as any viper’s bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus!! I've been participating in the TOGZine as well as TOG BB! I also recently transferred to a new position at work, so there's a fair bit on my plate! I haven't forgotten S&S! Definitely plan on carrying this out to the end. It's practically my child now lol 
> 
> I want to say THANK YOU to everyone who comments and kudos! Your thoughts and well wishes are seriously some of the most heart-warming things I read! You all are the best! Another shout-out to the marvelous [Aqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avanie>Avanie</a>%20for%20being%20the%20most%20amazing%20beta.%20She%20really%20slashed%20through%20some%20funky%20sentences%20with%20this%20one,%20oops!%20Also,%20thank%20you%20<a%20href=) for the Latin lessons--that was truly a live saver! Now, ONTO WARNINGS!
> 
> **Warning: *THIS CHAPTER has depictions of PTSD and panic attacks!***

Resting is a fruitless endeavor.

The sky above is bitumen-black, every white pinpoint star held in its claggy grasp a beacon calling out for help. Their twinkling little more than a death-knell echoing on for eternity.

Yusuf contemplates the parallel of their suffering with his own.

His eyelids are gritty and swollen from crying. The emotional outburst, and the fight in the valley proceeding it, leaves him ragged. Sleep’s fingers stretch through the murky depths of his fatigue in an attempt to drag him under. All four of his long limbs weigh heavy with the longing to rest. Hearing is as fuzzy as the husks of cotton plants that grow along the Nile. He is ready, though _unwilling_. His stubborn body refuses to surrender.

Holding out for rescue--Yusuf is well acquainted with those phantom pains, and the inevitable disappointment thereafter. Citizens clinging to the last vestige of hope, that reinforcements will arrive in the knick of time to spare them a fate worse than death.

_The Fatimids from al-Qahira never came_. A tedious tattoo taps away inside his skull. Sleep is the enemy at Yusuf’s gate, clamoring his walls and eager to strike him full of terrors.

Rolling in scratchy, moth-eaten blankets, Yusuf sneezes in little fits. He shook them out vigorously, several times over, hopefully riding them of any nasties crawling in the weave. However, there is no dislodging centuries’ worth of dust caked in between the fibers. Nothing except a thorough wash will drive away the musty scent. Or burning them…

The two men haven’t the luxury of freshly laundered sheets. _This is better than nothing,_ Yusuf tells himself repeatedly. There are less fortunate souls out there in this wide world that would give anything for a few threadbare blankets to nest in. He wipes his stuffy nose on his sleeve and tries to settle in.

Except the ground is a cold, uneven stone mattress beneath his back. It jars his shifting and protesting bones. That is, before his healing abilities quiet the worst of the spasms and cramps. However, the ground is impossible to ignore; an instant later, and the pain returns.

Allah’s gift, if it can be called such a thing, is so strange and terrifying.

Appreciation and outrage war within, rendering Yusuf guilty more than he cares to feel. Never in his joyful, cheery life has his Lord failed him. His sisters, his loving mother…even his overly-ambitious father; his education and training, the adventures over sea and land. All his years are a cherished gift.

In these dank, dark ruins, wrapped in dead men’s sheets, it’s too easy for resentment to creep inside and wear him thin. Of all the poor men, women, and children of Jerusalem, only Yusuf is spared the horrible siege. No, that is incorrect. Him and _one other_.

Allah’s defender stuck with the agent of aggression. Plucked out of the mortal web together. They say He works in mysterious ways…but tying Yusuf’s unending existence with his enemy is cosmically ironic. It stings as unforgivably as any viper’s bite.

Yusuf turns, hiding his face into his arm to quiet his roaring thoughts. Earlier, he recited the stories of these lands and the misery of his situation abated with every step they took eastwards. Sun scorching, Yusuf spoke until his throat grew sore, and Nicolò, gratefully, listened. Well, the omega _seemed_ attentive to his tales. Then again, the stoicism permanently chiseled on his square, pink face is nigh-on indecipherable. Yusuf only ever sees him emote when in the throes of battle or lit up in fear at the mere whisper of ghosts.

Unfortunately, the stillness of night heralds the return of Yusuf’s own ghosts. They come for him with frightful vigor.

His mind leaps frantically like a deer desperate to escape the arrow before it’s too late. Yusuf knows closing his eyes and slipping away is dangerous. He’ll be beset by grotesque and ghoulish nightmares, writhing away under their wretched spell. The deceased with their haunting eyes, glazed and congealed. In his sleep, Yusuf’s hands are wet and tacky with pungent blood. The acrid stench of smoke chokes him, robs his lungs of air. He runs endlessly around a city on fire, never reaching the walls’ end. The sound of thundering hooves, screaming horses, and wailing women nips at his heels, chasing him into a dead sprint. Try as he may, Yusuf can’t outrun the threat.

Just when the terror ambushes to consume him whole, Yusuf will startle awake with a choked gurgle. He lurches and scours his surroundings for hidden villains. All the while, Yusuf’s arm clenches around an absent sword. Tense and aching, exhausted from the countless hours spent hacking through bone and sinew. _No, it was only a dream!_ Impossibly, the shadows linger long after the nightmare dissipates. An inescapable torment both night and day.

Yusuf sighs and abandons his makeshift bed. There will be no rest tonight.

He glances across the crackling fire. Nicolò is purposefully turned away towards the monastery’s entrance. A scimitar lies within easy reach. He’ll be ready at the first sign of trouble to ascend the steps to their hideout.

Yusuf grimaces. The omega is…eerily skilled at that. _Killing_. His tired eyes trace the broad plane of Nicolò’s shoulders outlined by the orange, flickering light. Follows his bent legs and the dip of his waist, all the way up to the back of his oddly shaved head where it sticks out of his nest of blankets. A warrior despite an omega’s physique.

A flash of pity-- _not even children?_ \--before Yusuf quickly snuffs it out. His idle hands clasp the iron poker. In the very short time he’s known the other, Yusuf realizes how little Nicolò regards pity and fragility.

_‘You **hesitated!** ’_

Glowering, Yusuf stabs at the logs continuously until the fire spits indignantly. The bright sparks do nothing for his worsening headache. He steals another glance at his unwilling travel companion. Nicolò’s breaths appear steady enough. No nightmares to taunt him. He is as quiet as a mouse.

Yusuf huffs bitterly. Only a fool would confuse the omega for a meek little mouse. Moreover, how can the man sleep with the blood of countless innocents staining his hands? Mere hours ago, Nicolò almost single-handedly decimated an entire band of bandits. One he even stabbed right through the heart.

_‘Please, take my silver! Spare him and go in peace!’_

_The bandit smiles cruelly, eyes dark and lifeless. ‘Is he not **Franj**? Then I will destroy him, for no doubt he has destroyed others. Let his death avenge our people!’_

_The curved dagger glints, rearing back to slit Nicolò’s throat. A scream tears through Yusuf and he runs--runs until he flies--to save a man who brings only fire to Yusuf’s dreams._

_Nevertheless, it is **Yusuf’s** hands holding the bandit down. Yusuf offers him up for the slaughter. Nicolò, now holding the dagger, he--_

Swallowing noxious bile, Yusuf rubs his throat. Nicolò is without a doubt a proficient killer. The way he snuffs out a life, brutally decimating swathes of them--he is more than deserving of divine justice.

Except he wept over Yusuf while murdering him outside Jerusalem. Sunk to his knees, empathetic to the ravagings of those doomed behind the walls. Nicolò, who leaps to attention at the first cry for help, carves a bloody path through thieves just to spare a single child from certain peril. His very nature and actions, at odds with another, all too confusing and vexing Yusuf. His very scent alone mixes fear, loathing, and pain chaotically together.

Be that as it may, this omega rages at armies and charges cavalry head-on. Rips seasoned Mamluk alphas from their saddles to dash them against rocks. Nicolò, the invader, the trespasser. Cantankerous and sullen.

_‘Alphas take and omegas, we…’ Hurt lurks behind those disquieting, luminous eyes of his. They ensnare Yusuf and, for one solitary moment, he forgets his own despair and dares to consider the humanity hiding beneath that gruff surface._

Another log goes on the fire, gentle so as not to disturb the omega. It is more considerate than Nicolò warrants, but Yusuf is unwilling to give in to hate. Not in this moment at least. Forgiveness requires penance. He rubs at his dry, bloodshot eyes.

If one thing is certain in this tumultuous new world, it is that there is no certainty at all.

With that last thought, Yusuf ambles unsteadily to his feet. He wraps his cloak around his shoulders. Damage marks the orange-ochre fabric profusely. Thorny bushes along the path left their marks in snagged runs, distorting the subtle chevron weave. An impulsive purchase made right before leaving Damascus. Now, it is only good for rags.

Lighting a torch-knot, Yusuf withdraws from camp and inwards into the ruins. The derelict halls of this ancient monastery beckon him to sate his curiosity. Previously, Yusuf combed through the rooms perfunctorily. Now he means to chase memories. He spares no backwards glimpse for Nicolò.

Yusuf is taller than those who built this place so many lifetimes ago. When the ceiling dips too low, he hunches down to avoid knocking into anything. The torchlight shivers over the floor, elongating shadows that dance and pulsate. Yusuf pauses at one wall, surprised to discover the dark pall on them is in fact faded frescoes. He’s seen colourful mosaics while traveling throughout Byzantine lands. Figures wreathed in gold and blue tiles, olive eyes shimmering as they raised their hands in prayer towards God. Devotion plain despite the forbidden display of faces.

In this forgotten realm far beyond the reach of Constantinople, a poor ascetic monk painted a scene from his beloved Bible. Yusuf trails a finger over the weaving branches of the Tree of Knowledge. Dozens of green leaves painstakingly rendered are now blackened by time. Beside the tree stands the two naked figures of Adam and Eve. Or would be, Yusuf muses morosely, if the plaster had not flaked most of them away. Their faces are disintegrated, but his eyes fall to their clasped hands. Together here for all eternity.

Yusuf lingers, feeling alone. When he finishes paying his respects, he leaves--the painting is shrouded in darkness once more.

This monastery is not huge, not by any stretch. Yusuf has over-nighted in caravanserais more labyrinthine than this. Only, he is _tired_ and the light plays tricks on him at every turn. A set of doors confront him after one corner. It takes little effort prying the rotten slabs apart. Beyond is an oval chamber. The torch illuminates a vaulted ceiling carved out of the mountain itself, chisel markings still decipherable if Yusuf strains his vision. Along the walls are slivers of alcoves--shelves still bearing items.

His feet shuffle through a carpet of dust, the sound of two leather soles jarring in the otherwise hushed vault. Yusuf plucks a small clay bowl off a ledge. It is brittle and filled with clotted cobwebs. He blows on them and they stick to his beard hairs. More bowls line the shelves in neat little stacks, one on top of the other, ready to be used by their masters. On a hunch, Yusuf lifts the torch higher and chases the darkness to the very edges of the chamber. A stale hearth lays at the farthest side. This must have been the kitchen.

Cradling the dish, Yusuf ponders what contents it held. Porridge of corn dole to break their fast, perhaps? A meager vegetable stew to sup on? How many hands cupped this very bowl before tragedy struck? Invaders and the pillaged, it never ends.

Yusuf’s lips thin into a grim and melancholy line. A malicious compulsion sweeps through his limbs, so unbidden that Yusuf is genuinely shocked when the bowl shatters into a dozen sherds against the wall. He broke it so quickly, so easily.

The hallway behind him lays dark and undisturbed. No one is coming to punish him for this transgression. Yusuf’s heart rabbits beneath his ribs. He overflows with giddy trepidation. Before he realises it, he’s grabbed another. Flinging it, the bowl wobbles in a warbling arc. His lungs paralyze. The clay shrieks on impact like the fragile thing it truly is. Dust clouds bloom in the wake of shrapnel pieces.

The torch clatters to the floor and flickers wildly. Yusuf dashes forward, scooping vessels off the shelves. Some escape his arms to break at his feet. The rest Yusuf hurtles with every ounce of strength he is capable of. Time blurs indecipherably by. The kitchen echoes with his exerted grunts and splintering pottery.

Losing himself entirely, Yusuf seethes with a hate he’s never felt before. It boils within his veins and pumps red-hot to all his fingers and toes. Anger--at the Frankish hordes that devour his lands and kin like greedy locusts. Anger--at the petty powers-that-be that squabble over scraps of land until it is too late to save anyone. Finally, anger--

_‘Rich, pampered, spoiled idiot!’_

Himself. A stupid little boy, swaddled in finery, pretending to be a hero. How naïve, how blind, to believe destroying something could ever fix it. Yusuf screams the anger out, his throat raw and swollen. Well, let the world reflect the broken, shattered man he is inside!

Yusuf is panting by the time he runs out of things to throw. Dust and plaster swirl about him like snow drifts. The chamber is completely ruined--fragments of clay litter the floor, iron brackets hang lopsided from the walls, cauldrons dented and forlorn. It is a battlefield of his own making. He gulps, suddenly chilled. _What have I done?_

Legs buckling, Yusuf slides down the wall. Trembling hands bury in his beard, touching spittle. His eyes sting, his teeth gnash, his fingers throb. He barks a bitter laugh only for his chest to seize around his manic mirth. Nothing can reverse the damage he’s done, to this room and to _himself_. What good is this gift if it can’t heal the wounds in his heart?

_Allah, please, have mercy on me! I am so scared!_ The monastery judges him in silence.

Sleep rears its ugly head without warning and bowls him over onto his side. Slumping, Yusuf’s eyes slip shut against his will. His legs twitch in a mockery of sprinting, as if to save him from certain death. _Flee, you fool!_ Yusuf sobs--he’d rather be dead than face the torments sleep has in store. The kitchen rapidly fades away.

Left inside Yusuf is only _guilt_. Burdensome, like a stone across his chest, held there by his own hands so that he may sink beneath the surface and drown.

***

Groggy, Yusuf winces awake. His cloak cocoons him tightly, binding his limbs awkwardly. Thirsty, he smacks his chapped lips and peers at his surroundings. Where is he?

Beams of fragile sunlight filter through slit-windows in the wall. Dust motes float lazily across his vision, swirling chaotically when Yusuf hoists himself up. The remnants of his last dream ebb out like a tide to sea, slipping through loose fingers and impossible to hold onto. A lake’s surface? So smooth it resembled glass. Rolling green hills and blue mountains. Familiar and yet the likes of which he’s never seen before in his life. Fortunately, _not_ a nightmare.

_Praise Allah!_ The relief is palpable--Yusuf could sing his joy aloud.

“You are awake,” a quiet voice sounds to his left. It spooks Yusuf. Nicolò stands at the kitchen’s entrance, stature stiff as usual. He gazes impassively at the mess Yusuf created.

“How long were you watching me?”

“Long enough,” he replies cryptically, green eyes piercing. Perceptive, they punch the air right out of Yusuf. Is he angry at him? He is a monk after all, and these were monks’ dishes, gone forever though they may be.

They stare at each other, seeking questions both too afraid to answer. Yusuf finally notices the fresh bruises under Nicolò’s eyes--a pair to match Yusuf’s own. His scent is muted from exhaustion. So, he _wasn’t_ sleeping across the fire after all. Such solidarity doesn’t comfort Yusuf. Quite the opposite. While he delved deep into the belly of the old crypt, lost his composure and acted a fool, somewhere above him Nicolò lay awake. Never once checking to see how Yusuf fared.

_Did you want him to? Is he even capable of comforting someone in need?_

Even his prickly older sister, Maryam, knew how to hug young Yusuf’s worries away. Nostalgia tugs Yusuf’s heartstrings--if he closes his eyes, he remembers the ginger and turmeric that defines his sister’s scent. This omega in front of him would likely balk if a child crept into his bed for warmth and safety. He called children ‘frivolous.’

_He smelled of sorrow when he said it, though_ …

Mustering his waning strength, Yusuf grips his cloak and gets his feet under him. He sways under the thrall of a harsh dizzy spell.

Hand to his forehead, Yusuf groans out, “Has sunrise gone and past?” When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to discover Nicolò hovering diligently at his side.

“Only just.”

Yusuf nods, “Where is the courtyard from here? I must go outside and pray.” Nicolò points behind him and to the left, bending low to pluck a jagged sherd off the floor. Yusuf hastily steps past him, unwilling to spend another second amongst the debris.

Trial and error leads him back up to the surface, Nicolò lagging steps behind. Only dawn and the sun is already hot and blinding. Hissing, Yusuf shields his face against the light. He ambles towards the lone date palm, finding immediate relief in the shade cast by its spiky fronds.

Locating south is easy enough. Folding a blanket into a rectangle, Yusuf lays it gently over the stone and kneels in the direction towards Mecca. With only handfuls of sand at his disposal, he commits to his daily ablutions for _fajr_. Halfway through, sweat slathers his sternum. He is keenly aware of Nicolò observing him perform the _salat_. Ignoring him takes every ounce of control Yusuf has left.

_Oh wise and merciful Allah, I know not your plan or what to make of your gifts. Please, suffuse me with your wisdom. Enlighten me as I tread blindly through the dark._ Yusuf opens one eye and sneaks a peek at the omega. Nicolò toes wordlessly around the camp, packing their looted goods away. They’ll haul it with them to Jericho. _Why does he follow? What is his purpose here? Why is it you have put him on my path, with an unending life to match my own?_

There is no quick answer for Yusuf. Regardless, it feels better sharing his concerns with Allah. One day, the answers will dawn, clear as crystal. He must be patient.

Across the ashes of the fire, Nicolò chews noisily on some dates. He spits the pits high and far enough to land in the bushes. _Patience_ , Yusuf repeats to himself.

He wipes his hands and asks dryly, “Did you spare any for me?”

Circling around for his scimitar, Nicolò drops a small sack into his lap. Inside contains a variety of dried fruits, nuts, and even husks of dried goat meat.

Eyes bugging out of his skull, Yusuf stammers, “Where did you--how did you??”

Shrugging, Nicolò mutters, “Off the bandits. Likely their rations.” He efficiently rolls blankets and ties them with strips of leather to their rucksacks. Hard to believe they escaped war and death only mere days ago with only the clothes on their backs.

_But did you really escape?_

His stomach rumbles. Aware he hasn’t eaten anything substantial in days, Yusuf ignores his dark musings and nibbles on a sliver of meat. It is beyond bland--salty, and stringy. Yusuf thanks Allah profusely for this small miracle. Nicolò too, he considers reluctantly, for his resourcefulness in their time of need. Yusuf doesn’t wish to find out if they can starve.

Careful not to glut himself, Yusuf eats a few nuts and more of the fresh dates. He’s tying the sack closed when Nicolò awkwardly sits beside him.

“I-” the omega starts, then frowns to himself. Yusuf fidgets with the food sack, thumbing the rough canvas while he waits. “Last night, I mean-” Nicolò hugs his arms and scoffs at himself.

“What about last--” Nicolò cuts him off, “I am sorry!” he blurts woodenly.

Yusuf is justifiably stupefied. He crosses his legs and gapes at Nicolò. “An apology? Last night you were very vocal about my apparent _mistakes!_ ”

“You _did_ make a mistake!”

Yusuf glares. The omega growls, scratching his chin in exasperation. “The things I said,” Nicolò elaborates, pronouncing his Sabir with deliberate care. “Words shouted in anger. I _am_ upset by your actions, but it was wrong to upset you without care.”

Pain lances through Yusuf. “Yes, I am weak,” he says, acknowledging the painful truth, “but you _hurt me_ last night, Nicolò. I was only trying to help.”

Nicolò winces, as if slapped. Yusuf watches critically--this isn’t the first time he has garnered such a visceral reaction from the omega. Cowed, like a dog kicked one too many times. _Is that why you snarl at the world so much?_

“I have tried showing you kindness,” Yusuf continues softly. “Mercy, when you have not earned it.” “Yes,” Nicolò agrees. Sorrow tinges his scent. “But you must understand--” “What more is there to say?” Yusuf shakes his head adamantly. “I spoke of the harm you and your kin have caused me. How the blood and the killing pains me beyond measure. Can you not simply listen? I do not wish to hurt anyone else, not if I can help it.”

He thinks about the kitchen. Destroying it did nothing to soothe the phantoms wailing inside his soul. Yusuf worries they’ll never be appeased. _Flies on rotting meat_. He shudders, sweat going cold. He can still smell the rancid stench of them crumpled in crimson-soaked fields.

“You were right before. I _am_ spoiled,” he passes Nicolò the food sack and stares at the horizon. The craggy cliffs are dull and dusted with sand. The morning sun intends to bake them white-hot. They mustn't tarry more than necessary. Yet, Yusuf desperately needs to speak his peace if they are to continue on the path together.

“At my core, I am a learned man with perfect penmanship. By trade, a merchant with an ear for accents. I will not lie, I rejoice in man’s stories and the finer things in life.” Yusuf picks at his nails, grimacing at the swirls of dirt caked in his cuticles. “There is no use for calligraphy in war. Nor fables sprinkled with flowery words. I know not how to live with myself after taking another life. I am not _you_.”

Nicolò listens attentively until the end. Yusuf silently thanks him.

“You cannot,” Nicolò eventually mutters, “live with it. Not really.”

Yusuf can barely conceive it, not when it hurts this bad. “But the way you fight? You do it with such conviction.”

“Pietas, Passio, Relictio, Virtus.”

Yusuf squints, “Pardon?”

Nicolò’s hands fist over his lap. He shuffles to face Yusuf directly, “They are the words of my order. An oath we swear on our lives to uphold. I am unsure how to translate them,” Nicolò hesitates, brushing his patch of dark hair with stubby fingers.

“It means, there is no responsibility without some pain, no courage without a cost. Your life, your mind, even. To falter is to open ourselves, and the people we must protect, to attack. We make unpleasant decisions because there is no other choice.”

Spitting bitterly, Yusuf asks, “Is that why you invaded us? Because there was ‘no other choice?’”

“No!” Nicolò leans forward earnestly, eyes wide, “I mean, yes-- _no!_ ” Sighing, Nicolò bows his head and cups his knees. “I went where I was ordered.”

“That is no real answer,” Yusuf sharply points out.

He spent an entire year listening to woefully pleading ring out from the minarets. The Emperor's mercenaries spread across the holy lands, unbeatable at every pass by sheer numbers alone. The sickening, sinking feeling in everyone’s stomachs when they realised-- _they aren’t coming to reclaim Antioch in the name of Rome._ Emirs and princes marching out to block their passage, only to scatter like birds in the wind. Any attempts to stymie their advance merely doubled the Christians’ tenacity. A hydra bearing Christ’s crucifix.

Nicolò most certainly is aware of this, having sprung forth from the snake-monster’s head when severed from its host. Now, he follows Yusuf aimlessly. “No, it is not,” Nicolò whispers.

They sit in silence. The shade cast by the date palm crawls infinitesimally away from them. Yusuf lets his imagination run free. He could turn this monastery into an asylum. Forget the outside world and all its cause and consequence. Clear out the courtyard and dine on fresh dates while listening to caravans pass. Stay here forever with Nicolò, hold his hand like Adam and Eve in the fading frescoe. Could Yusuf forgive him of his great betrayal and create something of their cast-out existence?

“You are angry…and sad,” Nicolò sniffs. Yusuf only shrugs. “That is no real answer,” the omega says.

Yusuf closes his eyes. “No. It is not.”

***

They breach the mountain path when the sun is at its highest. The last leg of their journey is spent in a contemplative lull. Today is not a day for stories.

Yusuf stops long enough to wipe his dripping brow with his ragged cloak. He shrouds his upper half and ignores the odd rust-red stains dotting the fabric. Better this than nothing against the harsh summer sun.

Does it ever cloud over in Judaea? Yusuf squints at the endlessly blue sky. He longs for a covered courtyard and luscious fountain, for an apartment with a windcatcher and several pillows to lay his head on. Yusuf groans under his breath. What little spit he has left is cooler than the scant breeze around them. He adjusts his pack of divvied goods and checks in on his shadow.

Predictably, Nicolò fares far worse than Yusuf. The skin of his cheeks and forehead flare red and splotchy. Despite his best attempts to shield himself, the omega blisters beneath the unprentent sun before healing instantaneously. Red, blisters, white again. Red, blisters, white--it is nauseating to watch, so Yusuf looks away.

The sound of water draws them to a nearby babbling brook. Gratefully, they scramble to the shore and revel in the cool waters. Dunking his head, Yusuf wets his tight curls and scrubs at his itchy scalp. Hardly a real bath, but comforting nonetheless. In Damascus, Yusuf favoured one particular bath house for their special rose water and pink salts. What he wouldn’t give for that lovely fragrance…

Nicolò splashes his face with water, droplets flying everywhere. The omega smells…odd. His wildly oscillating scent has Yusuf sniffing and sneezing randomly. One moment he’s as ripe as a rancid fruit, then along comes the wind and he stinks of burnt foliage. A normal omega shouldn’t smell so abnormal, even one as unwashed as Nicolò.

Then again, Nicolò is nothing if not bizarre and deviant in all things.

Perhaps Yusuf can purchase soap and force Nicolò to scrub the awful stench away. Franks are notorious for languishing in filth like swine. At least he’s seen Nicolò disappear into the wadi numerous times enough to know he’s not _averse_ to water. What would he make of a fine bath house and scented oils?

The way those green eyes are glassy and unfocused is cause for concern. The linen undertunic is too large on Nicolò’s lean frame and laden with dark sweat patches. Now and then he sways precariously, feet crooked over gravel. Yusuf worries--what if the sun kills him? What if he _stays_ dead?

For now, Yusuf waits and watches him splash around. It does the omega some good. One of the bandits had a waterskin on his person. Nicolò refills it and Yusuf loops it over his own shoulder for safe keeping. They’ll take turns sipping from it until the next water source happens along.

Jericho is near--Yusuf can see signs of civilization. Cultivated olive trees in neat rows, fields of wheat beyond stone fences, shacks dotting the distant sallow plains. Just as they clear a bend in the road, a great metallic clash rings out and reverberates across the cliffs. The reaction is immediate.

“Ah!” Yusuf startles. His numb body hits the ground with lightning speed. It was swords! Teeth clack loudly in his jaw. Blades crossing. Metal biting. His vision narrows to the size of a needle’s hole. Yusuf claws at his pinned cloak, wheezing. It is choking him!

_Battle rages outside the city--the mangonels lurch into action, crushing soft earth and flesh. Bones splintering--where is his horse? The captain is down, a pincushion for crossbow bolts. Ari, his trainer--caked in mud and screaming for his mother. The horns are sounding, bellowing, reverberating inside his skull._

Heart hammering, Yusuf curls over his legs. _Rostam stares, forlorn and shivering, disappearing from sight_. Is he drowning? Yusuf must be dying! The sensation is similar--hasn’t death graced his presence so many times before?

A set of sturdy hands take his shoulders. Thrashing, Yusuf grunts and resists. All he wants to do is flee. _Let me go, let me go, LET ME GO!_

“Yusuf!”

His nose scents an omega-- _blood and bits of flesh in his teeth, roaring like an animal, he keeps coming and coming_ \--

“Water,” Yusuf croaks. He receives a jerking shake instead.

“Breathe,” Nicolò says. Two twin emerald eyes coalesce out of the fog surrounding him, intense as a hawk’s stare. They’re _real_ though, and Yusuf keeps them in view.

“Count, Yusuf, starting with the smallest number,” Nicolò switches to Ligurian. He loses Yusuf, but his voice is methodical. Rhythmic. Numbers.

“I-I cannot!”

“ _Count_.”

Blinking away tears, Yusuf heeds the command, “W-wahed. E-ethnein, thalatha…”

At first, his lips refuse to cooperate. Nicolò persists, counting in his own language alongside him. By the ninth number, his torso stops hitching vigorously. At fifteen, the pressure behind his face fades. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, and Yusuf knows where he is again.

“Thlathyn,” Yusuf finishes, his voice parched and thready but less panicky.

Nicolò nods with satisfaction.

They are sitting somewhere on the outskirts of Jericho. Yusuf is shivering from his strange experience. The waterskin appears in his trembling hands. It spills past his lips and Yusuf hates himself for wasting what little they have.

“You pulled me through that spell, t-thank you,” Yusuf mutters. “How did you do that?”

Nicolò takes the waterskin away and caps it. “A technique,” he says too mildly, “one the monks taught me to…relax myself.”

The swords from earlier still ring out, faint and far away. Enough for Yusuf to cringe at their clangor and forget Nicolò’s puzzling words. “Is the city under attack?” Panic renews at the mere thought.

“No,” Nicolò shakes his head. “It is _taken_.”

“That cannot be!”

Yusuf crawls, fingernails breaking on rocks, hands sliding over pebbles. Peering over the bend, Yusuf steels himself for carnage.

There’s a simple Frankish encampment lining the fringes of the small city. Hardly a third of the presence that surrounded Jerusalem for months. Slim red flags flap haphazardly above their canvas tents. No sign of siege equipment, or none that Yusuf can spy. Jericho itself is intact and _open_ for free travel. A mixture of western pilgrims and soldiers mingle with the locals at the gates. No fire, no screaming, no pillaging. Shocking in just how placidly pictorial it is.

The noise that petrified Yusuf earlier rings out sporadically from a makeshift training yard. The Franks are sparring with each other, rolling in the mud like filthy animals in pens. A squeak of displeasure escapes Yusuf. Amicable though it may seem, this is someone’s _home_. This is still a hostile invasion, even without the wholesale slaughter seen elsewhere.

“Raymond’s forces,” Nicolò observes over Yusuf’s shoulder. “He always was a fickle, petulant man.” Yusuf watches him fidget, his scent souring.

“They know of me,” the omega adds, weakly. “My order served under his banners.”

“Then, you can return to them?” This is it--the end of their journey, however short and miserable. Yusuf stands there, strangely dejected. Honestly, he should feel _elated_ they’re parting ways.

Nicolò’s face turns ashen. He shakes his head emphatically, “If they discovered I yet survived, if they knew how I deserted the field--there is a limit to the protection my order affords me.” A faraway expression casts storm clouds over his face. More unmentionable ghosts.

_And if they discovered this deserter couldn’t stay dead_ …

Realization curdles Yusuf’s blood. Torture and execution in equal amounts, for however long as Nicolò’s captor’s sadism lasted. Given the atrocities committed at Antioch and Ma’arrat, these fiends’ well of depravity runs inexhaustibly deep. It dawns on Yusuf why the omega follows him blindly: on a promise of unending death, Nicolò _can’t_ return to the army.

That means he can’t enter the city either. How many other omega warrior-monks do the Franks have within their ranks? Even if he hid his idiotic hair and pierced ears, Nicolò is too conspicuous. All defensive glares and sour smells--someone is bound to notice his presence. This task is for Yusuf alone. They’re both fully aware, pacing trenches into the sand, path blockaded by unforeseen forces.

“Here,” Yusuf says, fingers worrying at his knuckles. He twists off a silver ring inlaid with a garnet. The same one he used to bargain for the omega’s life the night before. Yusuf bites cheek, remembering the thin bead of blood that ran down the marble-white column of his neck. The snarling, frenzied look in those sea-green eyes. _‘What are you doing? Kill him!’_

The ring is skin-warm and polished into a mirror-shine. Yusuf almost glimpses his haggard countenance peering back in the concave surface. He holds it out and drops it into Nicolò’s palm. “Hold onto this,” Yusuf says, “if I do not return, continue north along the Jordan until you reach a town to pawn it at. Use it to take you wherever you wish to go.”

A pregnant pause smothers them, as unbearable as musty woolen blankets. Expression pinched, Nicolò stares at the trinket. “But this is yours,” he responds monotonously.

“It is,” _Was_. Yusuf’s mouth thins, uncomfortable owning the piece of jewelry a moment longer. Any previous sentimentality it possessed is overshadowed by a dagger’s edge. “But unless those tinned earrings of yours are worth more than silver, it will not put food in our bellies nor guard our camp at night.” Still reeling from his previous inexplicable panic, Yusuf tries lightening the mood by playfully flicking one earring.

It nearly costs him a finger.

Teeth bared, Nicolò flinches so violently it shocks them both into a fighting stance. The omega lurches away, cupping his ear and huddling himself beneath the branches of a cedar. “Do not touch my ears!”

Yusuf’s throat clicks. He holds his hands out, palms up. “Apologies!” Nicolò shows no sign of stepping closer. Sighing, Yusuf says, “I will try to meet you here, before the day is done.”

The other’s scent flares briefly, acrid and off-kilter. “I could tell them you kidnapped me,” Nicolò blurts. Spooked by his own admission, his hand clenches around the ring. Yusuf’s jaw drops, disturbed by such a diabolical idea. Though, nothing stops Nicolò from marching into the encampment with his fabricated story. A pitiful omega captured by an enemy alpha, forced to obey his will until he could escape to safety? Nastier lies are uttered every day. Betraying Yusuf is so easy, he ought to kick himself for never considering it beforehand.

In his mind’s eye Yusuf sees the tables turned: seized in the market, hauled away and trapped for an eternity in an underground torture chamber. Nicolò would return to his cycle of violence and death. Aided this time with a truly unstoppable and impossibly dangerous power.

If Yusuf were a lesser man, he’d double-cross _him_ , oust Nicolò as a deserter and wipe his hands free of responsibility. Abandon the omega to a well-earned fate. One less barbarian to attack his people. Shoulders sinking, Yusuf pinches himself for harboring such cruel ideations.

“Before the day is done?” Nicolò’s hopeful voice rouses Yusuf from his inward spiral. He looks ashamed, sliding Yusuf’s ring on one finger with tender care.

An olive branch. Just like that, the tension between them dissipates. Yusuf promises, “Yes. I will try not to tarry.”

Nodding, the omega describes what they need for supplies. The logistics of survival methods and tools calms Yusuf’s anxiety. Only for it to spike when Nicolò holds out one of the swords. “No, there is no need--”

Nicolò huffs, “I am not asking you to raid the market. Take a weapon, in case someone hassles you. You need not be a defenseless little doe in the face of strangers.”

Scoffing, Yusuf glares at the scabbard, “I am a grown alpha. I can handle myself fine enough!”

“You hit like a feeble beta with a bad elbow,” Nicolò notes, tossing the sword at him. Of course, Yusuf’s subsequent fumbling draws a self-satisfied smirk out of the other. _Smug, exasperating, annoying_ \--

“I _have_ a bad elbow, mind you,” Yusuf grumbles. “Or, I did before all this.” The nature of their gifts is still a mystery. He belts the sword around his hips, ignoring how cumbersome and leaden it hangs on him. Yusuf refuses to ponder the significance of that, lest he dissolve into another panicked fit.

“And I have seen grandmothers with quicker reflexes than you.”

“At least they smell nice!”

“Excuse me?” Nicolò crosses his arms over his chest, voice icy. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Yusuf whirls and shouts, “You stink!” Snatching a plain grey blanket out of Nicolò’s suddenly slack hands, he exchanges his cloak for it. He balls up and tosses the ochre fabric at their rucksacks. Adjusting the grey cloth hides the sword well enough--out of sight, out of mind. Sniffing derisively, he adds, “I will purchase some soap as well, Allah knows you can use it!”

Outraged, Nicolò hisses, “Yes, because you are a bed of roses yourself!” He throws an empty, spare sack at Yusuf’s head. It tangles in his wild hair.

Twisting free, Yusuf rips the canvas off his face and points at the infuriating omega, “When I get back, I am tossing you in the river!”

“Good luck with that,” Nicolò dares. Turning on his heel, he leaves Yusuf sputtering for a small cave tucked away in the cliffs. “You should hurry. The sun is fading,” he throws sardonically over his shoulder.

Yusuf seethes all the way down the hill, swaying with the force of his stomping feet. Knowing smug green eyes follow him at a distance only flusters him further. That beak nose arrogantly stuck in the air. The audacity of that--that _creature!_ A ‘defenseless doe’? Growling, Yusuf kicks a rock. What gives him the right, casting insults like that? He ought to have let Nicolò faint in the heat! Maybe a good whack to the forehead might knock some humility in him.

Head wounds. Doubling over his knees, Yusuf breathes through the unanticipated memory of Nicolò’s cracked skull and unseeing eyes. Allah, no, that’s not what he meant! Grunting, he scratches his scalp and wills his roiling stomach to settle.

_Get yourself under control!_ The voice sounds impressively like his late-father, no doubt barking at him for embarrassing him in public again. Whining, Yusuf rakes his frizzy curls into disarray. Bits of sand and leaves fly out, grease and dandruff sticking under his nails. Nicolò is right about one thing: they’re both gross.

Another headache blooms beneath his brow. He stops and rubs the wrinkles from his forehead, divesting himself of Nicolò’s nagging shadow. That is when he notices Jericho’s bazaar and himself standing right in the thick of it.

The stall overhangs flutter in the breeze above his head. Excited merchants gesticulate and entice would-be buyers to their wares. To his left are bolts of dazzling silks and gleaming copper dishes. On his right are barrels overflowing with aromatic spices--scarlet sumac, earthy cumin, and golden turmeric powders shaped into pyramids. Burning incense wafts along the path, a blessing to sensitive noses in such crowds.

Yusuf blinks, dazed and confused. The encampment, the gates, the _soldiers_ \--the distress of taking it in with his own two eyes--and he simply passed it all by with nary a second-glance. So distracted by his brooding, of Nicolò, Yusuf’s mind had no room for fear. He laughs, surprised. A veiled omega handling a camel eyes him skeptically, then glides past. Regarding him as an irrelevant, albeit eccentric, stranger.

This is _good_ , Yusuf tells himself. He _wants_ to be inconspicuous. Shutting his gaping maw, Yusuf clears his throat and sinks into the familiarity of a thriving market. Muscle memory awakens and lifts his spirits high. Yusuf levitates past cluttered stalls, haggling with decades of practiced ease. He loses more family jewels to bartering, but it can’t stop his elation. He passes the assaying office and his father’s long face springs to mind.

_‘The muhtasib is a noble man, habibi. He checks the scales and susses out immorality among his market-goers. Not a single dirham escapes his shrewd eye,’ Ibrahim says, gripping Yusuf by the back of his neck. His hand is proprietary and occasionally emphasises his musings with a strong shake. Yusuf tenses and commits his baba’s valuable instructions to memory. Ibrahim’s smile sharpens, ‘But the muhtasib is also a cockless Seljuk. He may strike fear in the hearts of commoners, but **you** , habibi are an **alpha!** ’_

A lifetime ago, Yusuf thinks unhappily. A distant market under a different dusk.

Here, in this far-flung city, the bazaar is small but no less invigorating. The sights and the sounds of civilization are a steady pulse that sends his feet skipping. Yusuf makes short work of the list, and even more rewarding work charming merchants out of gossip and anecdotes. He hangs on every exuberant word, like a child with a sweet treat. People--singing, praising, clapping, living, breathing! Oh, what a joyous balm to Yusuf’s otherwise tortured soul. To immerse himself in the hubbub is to be remade, light and whole.

A happy smile pulls his cheeks. Yusuf luxuriates in the strain. It’s as if the past months were naught but a vicious nightmare.

That is, until he hears _them_ chortling. Winded, Yusuf turns a corner. His hands involuntarily tighten on his burgeoning sack of supplies.

There are four of them.

Alphas draped in oiled mail and steel cuffs. Their surcoats are tattered, the gold cross barely legible on the crimson fabric. Devoid of their conical helms, their skin pinkens grotesquely under the afternoon sun. Their straw-coloured hair hangs limp from weeks, if not months, of grime and grease. They turn to one another, cackling and shoving an old beta into the dirt.

This section of the market grinds to an eerie halt. The gathered crowd waits anxiously on bated breath. A sea of brown eyes pinch and glisten as the spectacle unfolds.

The largest Frank looms solidly, built to crush and pulverize his enemies no doubt. He stands with his meaty arms akimbo, scolding the old man in his foreign tongue. His lackeys mill about the fallen like jackals eyeing hobbled prey for the kill. Yusuf grows queasy, staring at the soldiers, but inside him also burns a raging fire.

These men--these _monsters_ \--have no human decency at all. Bullies, picking on those weaker than them. They’ve taken this city and know full well who holds the power. Fists clenched, Yusuf wishes to rush in, to shout and scream. He’s invincible, right? What good are Allah’s gifts if he can’t use them to save the innocent?

The elderly man, with his bird-like bones and weathered skin, is wise to keep his head bowed in submission. If this were Rostam… Yusuf grinds his teeth and sniffs away the sharp sting tingling behind his eyes. He _isn’t_ Rostam. Intervening will only get them killed.

That is the pity of his strength: how utterly _powerless_ Yusuf is when others’ lives are at stake. So he stands dumbly, waiting until the Franks grow bored. What would Nicolò do if he were in Yusuf’s boots? No doubt start a bloodbath.

With one last kick of dirt, the oxen leader pivots and leaves. The rest of the Franks slither on after him. The absence of their strangling presence is palpable. A shout rings out, “ _Alhamdulillah!_ ” and everyone springs into action.

Yusuf nearly trips over his feet racing over to the man. Others surround him quickly enough and together they help the beta to his feet.

“Thank you Allah,” the old man sobs, gripping every helpful hand and sagging tearfully.

One woman says contemptuously, “Beasts, the lot of them!”

“Charity and hospice--are these not the tenets of our faith?”

“I will show the _Franj_ charity when they stop seizing our grain and horses!”

“It is the governor’s fault! Fraternizing with these loathsome devils!”

A miasma of despair and revulsion agitates the crowd. Backing away, Yusuf rubs his neck, smearing sweat along his fevered flesh. Somewhere outside their walls, tucked away in a small cave is another Frank. Does returning to Nicolò make Yusuf a traitor? Fresh bruises bloom across the beta’s skin in mottled pinks and yellows.

Yet Yusuf can’t reconcile what he just witnessed with the omega who sat next to him at dawn and softly apologized for his harsh words. With conviction that astounds him, Yusuf knows Nicolò would never hurt a feeble old man for the sick pleasure. While the two are not the same, Nicolò still journeyed with these Franks. Possibly sat and supped with them while they boasted around a fire. What if they’re _friends?_

_‘They know of me,’ Nicolò says in terror._

Heart flipping, Yusuf collects his purchases and meanders towards the main gate. More things to ponder, to keep him up at night. Glancing at the sky reveals the lateness in the day. His time here has concluded.

Unlike during his arrival, Yusuf stays present and cognizant of his surroundings. The throngs of people are easy enough to slip past. The guards on duty are more wary of the invaders than a man who looks and speaks like them. He leaves Jericho uncontested and plots a path over the winding hills towards Nicolò’s hiding spot. With any luck, they can set out immediately and leave this place behind for good.

_One step closer to home, to family_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter! Leave a kudos in memory of Beatrisia (who I pictured as Queen Calanthe throughout this), or a comment for sweet Michelino! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr under the same name, as well as on the All & More Discord server, where I like to write smutty one-shots ;)


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